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: 

Ainop^f  the  mlLaws  .  -who 
• 

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THE  NEW  YORK 
PTIftT  TP  TTft 

AfT«ft,  LENOX  AND 
TIL  DEN   FOUNDATIONS. 


T  1M1  I  K     P  ©  1 


BY 


"  Mother,  it  was  for  thee  I  toiled— I  shall  return 
With  health's  clear  beaming  eyes  to  thy  fond  arms,— 
Hope's  »olden  string  has  tuned  my  swelling  soul, 
Ambition  lights  her  torch,  and  Phosnix  like, 
Sours  from  the  ashes  of  ill-fortune's  urn  !"— GENT.  OP  LYONS. 


NEW  YORK; 

C.  L.  STICKNEY,  140  FULTON  STREET, 

Second    Floor. 
J.  C.  WADLEIGH,  459  BROADWAY. 

1843. 


,V  i'O£\K 

P8BUC  LIBRARY 


ASTOff,  LBUOX  AND 


W.  B.  &  T.  SMITH,  PRINT. 

89  Nassau  Street. 


TO    ELEAZER    PARMLY, 

AND 

SAMUEL    W.    PARMLY, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED, 

BY    THEIR    SINCERE    FRIEND, 

THE    AUTHOR. 


The  harp  hath  but  a  passing  strain, 

And  wakens  o'er  life's  sea, 
The  murmuring  that  shall  die  again, 

And  loose  it   melody — 
The  bird  hath  sung  on  summer-bough, 

In  wood,  and  festal  bower, 
Though  mute  its  lips  of  music  now, 

Which  charmed  us  for  an  hour: 
Yet,  to  the  heart  that  harp-strain  went, 

That  sweet  bird's  pleasant  song, 
And  low  within  our  bosoms  pent, 

Their  memories  ever  throng. 
Wo  bless  the  harp,  we  bless  the  bird, 

For  each  soft  thrill  they  woke, 
And  all  our  holier  feelings  stirred, 

Their  fading  spells  invoke  ! 
It  was  a  gentle  song,  they  sang, 

As  morn  peeped  through  her  bars, 
And  soft  as  seraph's  music,  rang 

Beneath  the  evening  stars — 


INVOCATION. 

The  trembling  soul  must  echo  it, 

Though  other  lips  have  thrilled ; 
It  was  the  deep  unspoken  song, 

That  all  our  spirits  filled. 
O,  if  my  lay  shall  charm  one  heart. 

As  harp  and  bird  hath  done, 
My  toil  has  finished  well  its  part, 

My  fondest  dream  is  won ! 
The  sun  and  shade,  the  hope  and  fear, 

The  faith  and  doubt  were  mine ; 
From  these  I  wove  with  many  a  tear, 

The  garland  at  the  shrine — 
My  guerdon  but  the  morning  air, 

And  yon  sweet  star  above, 
Which  beams  upon  the  soul's  despair, 

With  all  the  light  of  love: 
Thanks,  to  the  lips  which  bade  me  sing, 

The  kind,  the  good,  the  true  ; 
To  them,  to  all,  the  harp  I  bring, 

And  bid  them  here  adieu ! 
Tears  unto  those  who  sit  in  tears, 
And  smiles  to  smiles  are  given ; 
Through  tears  and  smiles  in  coming  years, 
I  strive  as  I  have  striven. 


IANTHE,      .  '    ,       .        .        ,        .        •        •        •        9 
Artist's  Prayer,  ........     26 

Do-Hum-Me,     ........      33 

Ponce  De  Leon,         .        .        .     '  .        .        .        .36 

Christ,         .       '.       '.      '.      V,V'      '*        *        *      ^ 
Greenwood,        .  .  •«        .        •        .58 

Napoleon,  .        .        .  .        .        .62 

Prometheus, i        .      74 

Horicon,     .        .        .-'     '  •?'  ''•*'    "...        .      80 

Evening,  a  Hymn, 86 

Wa-Con-Tam-Ee,       .        .        .      *.        .        .        .103 

England, 114 

Lelia,          ....:....    119 

The  Marble  Bride, .    146 

The  Ruined  One,       .        .        .        ....    150 

As  It  Is, 154 

Henry  Inman 165 

To  a  Picture, 168 

M'Donald  Clarke, 170 

To  My  Mother, 173 

Myra, 176 


8  CONTENTS. 

Bryant,       .       „        .  "    ,        J  .;       ,        .        .  177 

From  Nina,    .    .        •        ..?.    .-       .     '  .        .        .  178 

To  Nina,     ...       '.  "". '-';  .       ,        .        .  180 

Ella,    .        f-     «:-.,    "''-W;    .-"  x '•'•  •'.    •        •  182 

Death,         .        •        .        .        .       .   "'•/  .  n   * .        .  184 

From  Nina,         .        •        .        .        .                 .        .  185 

To  Nina, .  /;~        .187 

Estelle, 188 

Song  of  Beauty,      .•...•..  190 

Death  of  Channing,    .                        \        .        t        .  191 

Ligh^     •      •        .        i        .   '  ^      '.  193 

Odd-Fellowship,  .        .        .        .    •    .  ' .    .        .        .  195 

Robert  Emmet,    .        .        .        ...        .        .  197 

Dawn, 198 

Erin, ''      .  v    .        .201 

Ticonderoga, 203 

The  Battle  Ship,          .        .       '.        .        .        t        .205 

Vermont,                     • 207 

Lake  Champlain, 209 

Columbia's  Pine,          •        .        .        .        .        .        .  210 

Lowly  Places,      ........  212 

IWy  Native  land. 214 

Washington  Allston, 216 

Man, 217 

The  Poet's  Death, 219 

Isadore, 223 

The  Kiss,  ,        .  ,224 


THERE  is  a  tongue  mysteriously  given 
To  soothe  the  pilgrim  in  his  hours  of  wo, 

A  gentle  breathing  from  the  spirit  heaven 

Which  fans  the  tear  from  every  cheek  below ; 

A  sun  of  brightness  which  makes  ripe  the  soul, 

And  fits  it  for  its  temple  and  its  goal. 

There  is  a  language  of  the  thrilling  eyes, 
A  gentle  pleading  of  the  heaving  breast, 

A  soft  persuasion  in  the  smothered  sighs 

From  out  young  hearts  by  the  adoring  prest ; 

In  all,  a  magic  strengthened  by  desire, 

Which  fills  the  soul  with  an  extatic  fire. 

It  is  the  voice  of  waving  curls,  and  lips, 

And  cheeks  that  tempt  us  with  delicious  blushes, 

So  fair  that  every  wind  full  wanton  sips 

The  purple  stream,  that  in  its  channel  gushes 

Below  that  brow  of  marble,  which  alone 

Were  worthy  to  be  called  a  fairy's  throne. 
1 


JQ  POEMS. 

It  is  the  bond  of  spirits  speaking  thiough 
The  crystal  windows  of  the  human  soul, 

A  language  silent,  but  so  faultless  true, 
That  they  who  read  resist  not  its  control ; 

It  is  the  perfect  of  that  inner  being, 

Too  fine  for  aught  but  sympathy's  fine  seeing. 

Such  was  the  language  of  lanthe,  when 
Oft  in  summer's  wavy  woods  we  met, 

'Neath  the  green  cypress  of  the  shady  glen 
By  the  sweet  breathing  of  a  fountain  wet ; 

And  swiftly  flew  the  winged  hours  away, 

Scarce  chiding  us  as  'mid  the  flowers  we  lay. 

Our  life  was  but  a  vision  undefiled, 

An  endless  gaze  of  fond  consuming  eyes  ; 

I  looked  on  her,  and  she  returning  smiled — 
So  archly  on  her  lip  it  played,  as  rise 

The  tiny  waves  of  the  half  tranquil  sea, 

Speaking  a  power  of  hidden  strength  to  me. 

Ours  was  a  mutual  love,  and  it  became 
From  childhood  stronger  as  we  upward  grew, 

Until  from  warmth,  it  kindled  to  a  flame 
Of  holy  trusting,  fate  would  scare  undo, 

Unless  she  dared  to  peril  souls  allied 

By  links  too  sacred  ever  to  divide. 


POEMS.  11 

I  sickened  once,  and  grew  so  wan  and  weak, 
That  death  already  hovered  at  the  door, 

O  how  she  clung  around  to  gently  speak, 
To  fan  my  fevered  brow,  and  o'er 

My  aching  body  like  an  angel  form 

To  stand,  a  bow  above  a  darkling  storm. 

O  had  I  hated  woman  till  that  hour, 

lanthe  would  have  conquered  ;  I  arose, 
And  from  the  time  I  left  that  couch,  a  power, 
"  I  knew  not  whence  it  came,  a  power  that  goes 
More  swift  than  lightning  to  the  mystic  part, 
Like  a  strong  giant  chained  my  trembling  heart. 

Then  love  became  intensity  !  a  fire 
Like  molten  lava  fed  upon  the  strings 

Of  my  swoln  heart,  and  all  desire 

Of  every  kind,  fell  merged  into  the  springs 

Of  that  wild  passion,  whose  mysterious  sway, 

The  saint  and  savage  must  alike  obey. 

We  vowed  by  many  a  glimpse  of  the  pale  moon, 
And  sealed  our  vows  with  an  enraptur'd  kiss, 

And  prayed  the  long  expected  day  would  soon 
Come  on  and  consummate  our  bliss  ; 

For  why  should  two  fond  hearts  delay  to  dwell 

Within  the  circle  of  that  wondrous  spell  ? 


12  POEMS. 

Thus  ran  the  hours,  so  swiftly,  they  did  seem 
Like  ocean  waves  that  kiss  the  blushing  sands, 

Or  winds  that  play  where  rosy  couches  gleam 
And  toss  the  flowers  upon  their  spicy  hands  ; 

We  cared  not  for  their  passing,  she,  nor  I ; 

True  lovers  care  not  how  the  moments  fly. 

0  how  we  laughed  at  time,  and  mocked, 

And  dared  his  surges  to  sweep  on  their  worst ; 
And  pulled  the  silver  beard  of  him  who  rocked 

The  young  creation,  when  it  rising  first 
Peeped  out  from  chaos,  and  its  maker's  hand — 
Henceforth  a  world,  a  universe  to  stand. 

We  dreamed  not  the  old  fellow  who  had  strown 
The  bones  of  empires  thickly  in  his  way, 

Could  change  our  hearts,  or  could  dethrone 
That  sovereign  idol  which  alone  held  sway  ; 

Did  we  not  know  each  other  ?  why  should  time 

Despoil  the  tower  it  builded  up  sublime  ? 

We  dreamed  amiss  !  the  silent  touch  which  bound 

The  ivy  mantle  upon  fallen  Troy, 
Was  doomed  to  clasp  us  in  its  passing  round, 

And  clasping,  smother  every  fount  of  joy  ; 

1  will,  that  I've  begun,  narrate  the  tale, 
Although  it  make  thee  shudder  and  turn  pale. 


POEMS.  13 

The  story  of  our  childhood  thou  must  know, 
To  pierce  this  demon  of  the  human  heart ; 

And  learn  what  poisonous  weeds  may  grow 
On  goodly  soil  until  they  form  a  part, 

And  with  their  wings  like  deadly  locusts  spread, 

Fling  out  their  ruin  on  the  victim's  head. 

Our  parents  had  their  castles,  and  were  proud, 
And  taught  us  early  worship  at  the  shrine 

Where  wealth,  and  pride,  with  folly  ever  bow, 
As  though  like  tender  ivy  we  would  twine  ; 

For  they  had  planned  while  we  were  children  gay, 

That  we  should  wed  upon  some  future  day. 

We  play'd  amid  the  flowers,  and  laughed, and  wept, 
And  even  as  they  wished  us  fanned  the  flame, 

Which,  though  in  urns  of  different  nature  kept, 
Was  but  one  spark,  which  afterwards  became 

Our  living  soul, — our  soul  of  quenchless  fire, 

That  ever  flashed,  and  ever  darted  higher. 

She  was  as  lovely  as  the  morning  beams 

That  glance  in  beauty  upon  mountain  springs, 

As  gentle,  as  the  moonlight  when  it  gleams 
With  heaven's  own  lustre  upon  angel  wings ; 

A  sort  of  halo  played  around  her  brow ; 

Bright  as  I  saw  it  then,  I  see  it  now, 
1* 


14  POEMS. 

She  passed  like  a  young  bird  'mong  fields  of  roses, 
Her  gushing  heart  o'er  filled  with  artless  song, 

4s  sweet  as  in  our  dream  sometimes  discloses, 
When  fondest  thoughts  upon  our  memory  throng ; 

How  could  one  fail  to  love  a  form  so  fair, 

Whose  image  fixed  upon  us,  clings  forever  there  ? 

But  much  unlike  her  nature  was  my  own, 

For  I  had  all  of  an  Italian's  fire — 
A  haughty  coldness  which  would  be  alone, 

Unless  with  those  I  loved,  or  some  desire 
Burst  in  upon  me  bidding  to  be  gay, 
When  I  would  drive  my  stern  resolves  away. 

I  looked  upon  the  world  as  a  dark  den 

Of  human  beings  trained  to  cherish  crime, 

And  felt  no  holy  sympathy  with  men 

Who  were,  I  thought,  unblest  with  the  sublime, 

And  lofty  spirit  of  a  worship  given 

To  conscious  virtue,  by  approving  heaven. 

I  spurned  communion  with  surrounding  dust, 
As  though  it  were  a  poison  to  my  touch  : 

And  every  breath  some  wave  of  lawless  lust 
Received,  at  least,  my  silent  scorn  as  such  ; 

Until  the  breach  between  us  widened  so 

That  I  was  strangered  to  my  kin  below — 


POEMS,  15 

Save  this  fair  spirit,  which  around  my  path 
With  radiant  wings  assumed  an  angel's  form, 

And  gently  quelled  the  tempest  of  my  wrath, 
As  yonder  bow  would  check  the  cloudy  storm, 

And  soothe  with  its  soft  glance  the  chafing  sea, 

So  was  her  presence  like  a  spell  to  me. 

No  wonder  that  I  clung  to  her  with  mood 
Of  phrenzied  love,  she  was  my  star  of  light, 

So  fair,  so  gentle,  innocent,  and  good  ; 

Even  as  those  beings  who  in  garments  bright 

Watch  'round  the  weary  pilgrim's  couch  of  rest, 

Doing  kind  deeds  to  make  his  slumbers  blest. 

Such  were  her  graces  that  they  even  threw 
A  charm  on  all  the  coarser  world  around, 
'Till  gazing  on  her  I  forgot  to  view 

The  countless  faults  which  seemed  to  erst  abound, 
Ere  her  own  magic  like  a  spell  redeemed 
The  sullied  spark,  ethereal  though  it  gleamed. 

I  loved  her  as  I  loved  myself,  aye  more  ! 

I  would  have  died  to  save  her  single  hair, 
I  only  lived  to  worship,  and  adore 

Perfection  dreamed,  but  never  found  so  fair  ; 
I  was  a  slave  to  do  her  slightest  will, 
Not  the  stern  clay  thou  look'st  at  living  still. 


16  POEMS. 

She  knew  my  loftly  humor,  quiet,  stern, 
Which  only  yielded  tribute  unto  worth  ; 

And  prized  me  dearer  that  I  did  discern 
Between  the  noble,  and  the  noble  birth ; 

And  like  the  vine  that  clings  unto  the  rock, 

She  closer  twined  beneath  each  tempest  shock. 

I  was  the  Delphos,  where  her  lingering  feet, 

Came  to  consult  the  oracle  divine, 
Love's  stayless  mandate — daily  she  would  greet 

With  holiest  incense  the  unspotted  shrine, 
Like  a  young  priestess  sending  up  her  prayer, 
That  it  might  burn  forever  brightly  there. 

So  fled  the  rapid  time,  year  after  year, 
Until  I  bore  the  stamp  of  manhood's  seal, 

A  time  and  age  when  aught  we  hold  most  dear, 
Inspires  us  most  its  strength  and  worth  to  feel ; 

When  all  the  love  that  I  had  cherished  long 

With  constant  heart,  seem'd  more  than  doubly  strong. 

The  day  was  set  to  seal  our  happy  fate, 

And  we  were  gay  with  dreams  of  coming  bliss, 

With  hopes  and  joys  which  made  our  hearts  elate, 
And  I  for  once  all  sadness  did  dismiss  ; 

So  strong  the  power  that  bound  me  like  a  spell 

I  could  but  love,  so  hate  I  bid  farewell. 


POEMS.  17 

It  was  a  pleasant  eve,  as  to  the  hall 
That  held  lanthe  I  bent  my  eager  way, 

My  bosom  leaped  to  the  familiar  fall 
Of  an  old  sentry's  footstep,  on  the  grey, 

Moss  covered  battlement,  where  oft 

I  in  her  ear  breathed  love's  low  music  soft. 

I  ope'd  a  little  gate  that  to  her  bower 
Of  twining  ivy  and  green  cypress  led, 

Where  I  had  passed  full  many  a  blissful  hour 
In  weaving  rosy  garlands  for  her  head, 

While  she  sat  gazing  tenderly  on  me, 

Each  unto  each,  a  hallowed  deity. 

I  neared  the  place,  the  moon  was  glistening  bright 
Among  the  stars  in  the  blue  deep  above, 

It  seemed  uncommon  beauty  clothed  the  night, 
Or  I  was  maddened  with  the  thirst  of  love, 

For  every  murmur  of  the  breeze  that  came 

Fell  on  my  ear  as  though  it  bore  my  name. 

Hark  !  did  I  hear  ?  or  was  it  but  the  gale  ? 

It  was  a  sound — I  listened,  I  stood  still; 
'Twas  from  lanthe's  bower,  and  by  the  pale 

Moon  light,  upon  the  seat  we  used  to  fill, 
I  saw  one  face  I  knew  not,  one  I  knew, 
And  like  a  statue  in  my  steps  I  grew. 


19  POEMS. 

He  had  his  arm  around  her  neck,  his  lip 
Was  pressed  to  hers,  and  he  did  kiss  ; 

My  God  !  from  the  same  fount  where  I  did  sip, 
I  saw  him  tasting,  like  the  hiss 

Of  hungry  dragons  was  the  hollow  sound, 

It  stabbed  me  deeper  than  the  steel  could  wound. 

Then  came  a  voice,  a  whisper,  and  it  said — 

"Fredrico  knows  not  thou  art  here, 
I  kept  thy  name  so  secret,  as  if  dead, 

And  all  thy  letters  unto  me  so  dear, 
No  eye  but  mine  has  ever  looked  upon 
In  the  sweet  years  of  youth  and  childhood  gone." 

Thus  spake  Ian  the  to  him,  and  again 
He  held  my  idol  fondly  to  his  breast, 

Had  a  red  bolt  passed  through  my  frantic  brain, 
And  not  the  sight  of  all  I  loved,  carest, 

Gods  !  I  might  now  be  free  from  guiltless  blood, 

Free  as  one  hour  before  that  hour  I  stood. 

I  ne'er  had  known  a  rival,  and  the  thought 
Was  instant  madness,  like  a  hidden  fire 

That  green-eyed  monster  rose  within,  and  wrought 
The  very  fountains  of  my  desperate  ire  ; 

I  chafed  with  hot  revenge,  aye  more  ! 

I  clutched  a  dagger  from  the  belt  I  wore, 


POEMS.  19 

A  dagger  jewel  hilled,  which  one  day 
She  fastened  to  my  side,  so  I  might  be 

Her  own  true  gallant  cavalier  alway, 
Her  brigand  as  it  were  fac  similie  ; 

Unthinking  how  its  polished  point  might  blast 

Her  life,  her  soul,  the  future  and  the  past. 

I  drew  it,  held  it  to  my  bosom  as  a  friend, 
And  whispered  calmly  what  I  wished  to  do, 

1  kissed  its  edge,  and  breathed  a  curse  to  blend 
With  its  keen  brightness,  beautiful  to  view  ! 

The  steel  seemed  conscious  where  its  errand  lay, 

And  leaped  to  glut  my  vengeance  on  its  prey. 

Softly  I  crouched,  as  tigers  when  they  spring 
On  the  sound  sleeper  in  the  jungle  bed, 

I  stood  behind  him  silent  as  the  wing 

Of  viewless  angels,  when  around  they  spread 

Their  shadowy  arms,  to  bear  the  fainting  soul, 

Unknowing  of  its  finale  to  its  goal. 

I  bent  my  ear  one  instant,  but  no  breath 
Escaped  my  lips — I  wished  to  know, 

The  name  of  him  my  dagger  doomed  to  death  ; 
I  could  not  hear,  they  spoke  so  passing  low, 

But  one  short  sentence  fell  upon  my  ear, 

He  "  wished  Fredrico  were  a  moment  here." 


20  POEMS. 

Ho,  take  thy  wish !  I  uttered  with  a  yell 
That  shook  the  bower  as  if  a  demon  spoke, 

And  to  his  heart  the  steel  unerring  fell ; 
He  leaped  into  the  air,  a  single  stroke 

Had  snapt  his  life  cord,  and  the  spouting  gore 

Flew  in  my  face  as  by  him  I  bent  o'er  ! 

Then  rang  a  shriek,  a  shriek,  that  instant  chilled 
My  leaping  pulse — it  was  lanthe's  shriek  ; 

"  O  God,  it  is  my  brother  you  have  killed  !" 
I  heard  not,  saw  not,  vengeance  was  too  weak, 

The  awful  truth  burst  on  me  like  a  shock, 

And  I  fell  senseless  as  a  smitten  rock. 

I  woke  within  the  walls  of  a  low  prison  damp, 
Still  in  my  ear  that  same  wild  thrilling  cry; 

It  was  my  music,  I  heard  not  the  tramp 
Of  the  grim  dungeon  rats  go  by, 

But  sat  intently  gazing  on  the  floor, 

My  fingers  dabbling,  as  I  thought,  in  gore. 

For  months  I  moved  not  but  to  gnaw  the  crust 
Some  unseen  agent  daily  thrust  within, 

My  chains  did  laugh  and  mock  me  through  their  rust, 
And  the  cold  walls  at  times  would  ghastly  grin 

And  nod  at  me,  and  whisper  to  each  other, 

"  This  is  the  assassin  of  lanthe's  brother." 


POEMS.  21 

I  raved,  and  tore  my  hair,  of  what  avail  ? 

I  dashed  my  head  against  a  peering  stone, 
It  only  echoed,  madman,  to  my  wail ; 

I  was  a  spectre  haunted  there  alone — 
Ha !  how  I  tossed  my  fettered  limbs  in  air, 
And  sung  the  crazy  anthem  of  despair. 

The  keepers  paused  sometimes  and  pitied  me, 
And  one  old  priest  said  ave's  for  my  poor  soul ; 

What  cared  I  for  their  pity  ?  when  the  tree 
Is  scathed  by  lightning,  what  though  rivers  roll 

Close  by  its  roots,  and  soft  the  fresh  wind  grieves, 

Can  they  give  life  unto  its  blasted  leaves? 

It  was  a  solemn  mockery,  and  made 

The  raging  blood  boil  fiercer  in  my  veins  ; 

I  was  no  murderer,  then  why  parade 

Their  phantom  forms  around  me  f  I  would  rest, 

For  I  was  weary  of  the  long  array 

Of  sleepless  nights  that  brought  no  better  day, 

At  last  my  hour  of  earthly  trial  came, 

And  I  was  brought  before  the  callous  world. 

They  whom  I  scorned,  ere  I  was  damned  to  fame, 
Ere  from  my  place  of  conscious  merit  hurled  ; 

And  they  derided  me  that  I  was  chained, 

But  not  one  word  my  haughty  soul  complained, 
2 


22  POEMS. 

They  led  me  to  the  bar,  and  placed  me  fast 
Between  two  cringing  minions  of  the  law  ; 

Then  they  began  their  questions,  all  the  past 
They  did  unravel,  and  so  finely  draw 

The  story  of  my  crime  into  a  thread, 

That  sentence  fell  on  my  unshrinking  head. 

It  seemed  lanthe,  wishing  to  surprise, 
Had  wrote  her  brother  in  a  foreign  land, 

To  come  unto  her  bridal  in  disguise, 
And  as  a  guest  amid  the  others  stand 

Until  the  happy  knot  was  tied,  when  she, 

Would  have  a  ruse  in  showing  him  to  me. 

That  very  eve  he  reached  his  father's  hall, 

And  when  the  burst  of  smothered  love  was  o'er, 

He  and  lanthe  strolled  to  make  a  call 

Upon  their  favorite  bower,  where  long  before 

He  was  her  playmate,  ere  the  call  of  arms 

Enticed  him  from  the  castle  and  its  charms. 

And  he  was  pressing  on  her  cheek  a  kiss, 
Fit  emblem  of  a  brother's  love,  as  I 

Came  gaily  onward,  dreaming  but  of  bliss, 

When  some  most  vagrant  breathing  wind  swept  by, 

Charged  with  the  power  to  wake  my  jealous  soul, 

Which  once  aroused  spurned  madly  at  control. 


POEMS.  23 

The  rest  thou  knowest !  I  slew  him,  and  the  steel 
lanthe  gave  me,  drank  his  life  blood  up ; 

They  held  the  spotted  blade  so  I  might  feel 
Its  scorpion  memories  in  my  bitter  cup  ; 

Then  'mid  the  jeers  of  rabbles  I  was  led 
All  fettered  back  to  my  own  prison  bed. 

T  never  saw  lanthe  more,  they  brought 

No  message  from  her,  and  no  soothing  word 

To  quench  the  burning  fountains  of  my  thought, 
Which  were  like  lava  to  their  bottom  stirred  ; 

Save  that  one  day  a  black  sealed  packet  said, 

"  Fredrico's  troth,  the  crazed  lanthe  was  dead." 

Then  did  I  learn  her  own  sad  history,  then, 
They  told  me  how  from  that  unhallowd  eve 

Her  brain  had  wandered,  and  how  she  had  been 
A  drivelling  maniac,  living  but  to  grieve  ; 

A  melancholy  shadow  flitting  by 

With  pallid  brow  and  wild  unearthly  eye. 

For  many  months  she  wasted  with  her  wo, 
Until  tired  nature  could  not  suffer  more, 

And  then  they  laid  her  on  the  couch,  all  low, 
And  brought  her  flowers  that  she  did  once  adore ; 

And  that  which  should  have  been  her  bridal  bed, 

Death  chose  the  place  to  lay  lanthe's  head. 


24  POEMS. 

She  died  !  but  just  before  she  died,  the  light 
Of  her  lost  reason  once  more  brightly  burned, 

It  was  that  hour  when  day  melts  into  night, 
And  on  her  couch  the  pallid  sufferer  turned 

To  catch  one  glimpse  of  heaven,  the  last, 

Her  closing  eye  should  on  creation  cast. 

Just  then  the  angel  of  remembrance  stirred 
The  fount  of  memory  with  his  crystal  wing, 

She  called  my  name,  a  long  unspoken  word, 
And  gently  wished  me,  as  I  used,  to  sing 

A  song,  that  was  my  favorite,  and  her  own, 

Ere  o'er  my  soul  the  pall  of  crime  was  thrown. 

She  paused  as  'twere  to  hear  a  gentle  strain, 
But  silence  chained  her  minstrel  in  his  cell ; 

Then  on  her  pillow  she  did  turn  again — 

That  moment  broke  the  fond  enchanting  spell, 

She  shrieked  my  name,  her  brother's,  and  expired, 

The  second  victim  of  my  frenzy  fired. 

I  said  no  word,  I  answered  not,  nor  cared ; 

My  soul  was  but  a  blasted,  withered  thing, 
Cut  loose  from  all  the  sympathies  it  shared, 

A  fountain  once,  but  now  a  stagnant  spring, 
A  place  where  fiends  might  revel,  had  not  pride 
Closed  up  the  gates  to  every  ill  beside. 


POEMS.  25 

I  know  not  whether  she  forgave  me  then 
In  that  same  moment,  and  it  matters  not, 

That  would  not  bring  the  blossom  back  again  ; 
lanthe  dead,  her  brother  dead,  the  thought, 

Mocked  at  forgiveness,  as  the  tempests  mock 

Yon  foamy  surge  that  beats  the  rifted  rock  ! 

And  here  am  I,  in  this  bleak  world  alone, 
Struck  from  the  roll  of  virtuous  and  the  blest, 

Sad  as  the  soul  whose  solitary  moan 
Is  o'er  the  grave  of  all  it  loved  the  best ; 

Why  should  I  live,  why  should  I  linger  here, 

A  smitten  tree,  whose  branches  are  all  sear  f 

My  light  has  perished,  and  my  morning  star 
Sunk  ere  the  noon,  eclipsed  by  bloody  crime, 

Why  should  I  hope  for  mercy,  who  would  mar 
That  of  creation's  works  the  most  sublime  ? 

I  strive  not  against  justice,  I  will  die 

As  brave  men  perish,  uncomplainingly. 

I  only  ask  to  have  my  place  of  sleep 
Where  rests  lanthe  in  her  gravel  bed, 

So  that  one  willow  over  us  may  keep 

Its  long  sad  branches  like  a  banner  spread, 

Through  which  the  wind  a  passing  note  may  wake, 

And  o'er  our  couch  some  solemn  music  make. 


26  POEMS. 

lanthe,  gentle  spirit !  didst  thou  dream 

That  all,  our  two  fond  hearts  had  cherished, 

Would  flash  and  fade  like  a  wild  meteor  gleam 
And  die,  even  as  our  hopes  have  perished  ? 

So  pass  the  fairest  .fancies  of  life's  vision, 

And  leave  us  but  to  gaze  at  the  Elysian. 

I  come  to  thee,  lanthe,  earth,  farewell ! 

Ye  minions  of  the  law  on,  do  your  worst, 
Strike  to  the  heart,  even  as  my  dagger  fell — 

Death  cannot  more  than  life  to  me  be  curst ; 
Blot  out  my  name  and  let  me  sleep  with  her, 
Who  loved,  adored,  and  was  my  worshipper. 


TM1   ADSTTD 


Here  let  us  worship.     Not  with  voices  sad, 
Upon  thy  earth,  O  God,  in  beauty  clad, 
And  music,  and  strange  loveliness.     I  feel 
A  sudden  glory  'mong  my  heart  cords  steal, 
Asking  a  spirit  anthem.     O  let  me 
Who  lovest  all  things  glorious,  arise, 
And  to  the  evening  wind,  and  to  the  skies 


POEMS.  27 

Studded  with  silver  fooled  stars,  awake 
The  stillness  of  my  longing  soul,  and  make 
My  faint  low  prayer,  to  Him,  the  uncreate, 
In  whose  deep  bosom  is  the  will  of  fate ! 
O  let  me  bow  most  reverently,  for  I 
Am  yet  a  child,  great  Father,  in  thy  temple  high  ; 
This  wondrous  and  exceeding  universe,  whose  sky 
Halo's  my  dwelling  through  immensity  ;  a  child, 
Lisping,  but  yesterday,  a  few  faint  numbers  wild 
To  the  sweet  cadence  of  thy  forest  birds  ; 
A  few  half  rapturous  incoherent  words, 
Mingling  with  brookfall  murmurings  that  rose 
And  echoed  in  my  spirit,  as  the  soft  wind  blows 
Round  Memnom's  mystic  summit,  and  awakes 
Strange  hymnings,  soft  as  evening  zephyr  shakes 
From  the  JEolian  harp  strings 

Aye,  let  me, 

Kneel  on  this  mossy  knoll,  and  unto  Thee 
Pour  forth  the  music  of  my  worship  soul : 
O  glorious  God  !  I  hear  the  distant  roll 
Of  Ocean  surges,  that  since  eldest  time 
Have  sung  their  everlasting  hymn  sublime  ; 
This  eve  they  whisper  from  their  caverns  deep, 
Where  flashing  corals,  and  young  Naiads  sleep 
Beneath  the  pale  browed  moon,  all  low  and  lone, 
Uttering  that  wildest  murmur,  that  deep  moan 


28  POEMS. 

We  hear  in  hollow  shells,  when  far  away 
We  lift  them  to  our  ears.     They  bid  me  pray, 
Earnest,  and  loud,  and  the  fresh  evening  breeze 
Drooping  its  garments  on  the  leafy  trees, 
And  o'er  the  river  ripples,  and  with  wing 
Soft  as  an  infant  angel's  on  the  spring, 
Fanning  the  blossom's  fragrance,  bid  me  turn 
My  heart  to  adoration.     Lo,  I  yearn 
To  melt  into  their  cadence  ! 

O  Father,  list, 

The  evening  is  propitious.     Through  the  mist, 
Falling  like  sifted  tears  from  angel  eyes, 
Glisten  the  far  off  watchers  of  the  skies, 
Clad  in  their  golden  robes.     The  lofty  stars, 
Holding  eternal  audience,  through  their  bars, 
With  the  green  earth,  and  with  the  ocean  waves; 
Gleaming  on  palaces  and  huts  of  slaves, 
Undimned  and  beautiful.     They  bid  me  spurn 
The  roofs  of  temples,  and  the  fanes  where  learn 
Our  lips  all  hollow  prayers,  an  e'en  as  they, 
Beneath  the  unmeasured  blue  bow  down  and  pray, 
And  utter  my  thanksgiving. 

Thus  I  come  ! 

O  hush  all  passion  voices,  be  ye  dumb, 
Dumb,  while  I  murmur  to  the  living  God, 


POEMS   .  29 

And  with  the  flowers  that  sighing  round  me  nod, 
Kindle  a  hymn  of  inspiration.     Great  and  good, 
And  wonderful  art  Thou,  but  yesterday  who  stood 
Before  the  avenging  angel,  when  my  brow 
Was  pale  and  hot  with  fevers,  and  who  now 
Givest  thy  cooling  zephyrs — beautiful  the  world 
Which  thou  hast  given  to  thy  children  ;  green, 
Fresh,  and  fair,  and  over  it  unfurled 
Banners  of  purple  cloud,  whose  gorgeous  dye, 
Flashes  a  glory  on  the  upturned  eye, 
Magnificently  vast.     I  thought  yestreen 
My  pencil  had  a  power,  that  I  could  lift 
My  vision  to  the  heavens,  and  trans-shift 
Their  crimson  to  the  canvass,  pardon  me, 

0  Father,  God,  that  I  should  strive  with  Thee, 
Stealing  the  shadow  of  thy  colors  !  Nay, 

1  am  a  child,  my  ait  is  but  a  play 
Marring  the  blossoms  in  the  vestibule 

Of  thy  great  temple.     What  is  human  rule 

In  measuring  the  infinite  ?     A  single  flower 

Has  taught  me  of  my  folly,  only  Thou 

Can'st  tinge  the  spray,  and  on  the  rainbow's  brow 

Garland  the  flash  of  brightness. 

I  am  mute, 

I  yield  the  pencil  and  the  cankered  fruit 
Which  mocks  the  real — I  am  henceforth  thine, 


30  POEMS. 

A  lowly  worshipper  before  the  shrine 

Where  Thou  hast  spread  all  kinds  of  gorgeousness ; 

The  canvass,  I  adored,  is  lost ;  'twas  less 

Than  least  of  these  young  leaves,  or  summer  buds, 

And  infinite  is  either  star  that  studs 

Yon  roof  Empyrean  with  living  light, 

O'er  all  our  mimic  triumphs.     Here  this  night 

Do  I  forswear  the  easel.     O  forgive 

My  feeble  mockery,  henceforth  I  live 

But  in  thy  splendor  !    Let  these  fields  and  flowers, 

Sweet  springs,  and  brooks,  arid  glorious  summer 

hours, 

The  wind,  the  lightning,  and  the  passing  cloud, 
As  on  my  vision  in  their  pomp  they  crowd, 
Be  my  great  picture,  the  immensity, 
Which  speaks  through  all  its  glory  but  of  Thee. 

Father  supreme, 

This  is  no  phantasy,  no  idle  dream  ; 
I  come  as  the  free  spirit  wills.     No  glare 
Has  wrought  upon  my  soul,  but  this  same  fair 
And  glorious  world.     Why  should  I  not  ? 
The  shrines  by  ancients  built,  they  are  forgot 
And  buried  in  the  earth.     The  names  of  kings 
Are  but  the  pastime  of  the  curious,  things, 
To  be  remembered  in  some  misty  hour, 
When  history  stretches  forth  her  wand  with  power, 


; 


POEMS.  31 

And  brushes  from  antiquity,  the  mould, 
Which  ages  of  neglect  shall  ever  fold 
O'er  human  brows.     The  images  divine 
Our  mortal  masters  bid  from  marble  shine, 
Or  from  the  canvass,  where  but  yesterday 
I  thought  myself  creator,  pass  away, 
And  are  the  sport  of  moths,  and  slow  decay  ; 
While  thy  great  world  the  touch  of  time  defies, 
The  earth  is  ever  fresh,  and  yonder  skies 
Flutter  their  fadeless  robes  o'er  centuries 
Buried  eternally  ! 

Nor  this  alone 

Bringeth  my  worship  spirit  to  thy  throne. 
Magnificent  indeed  !     From  every  zone 
Wafted  by  spicy  winds,  what  myriads  blend 
Their  anthem  voices,  and  harmonious  send 
A  Paean  to  the  sky.     How  deep,  and  loud, 
Over  the  music  of  the  bursting  cloud, 
And  the  hoarse  roar  of  surges,  breaks  their  voice, 
Chaunting,  how  beautiful!  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 
How  wondrous  beautiful,  and  wise  and  good, 
Art  Thou,  O  bounteous  Father,  who  art  food 
For  forms  and  souls  that  hunger,  who  art  wine 
For  thirsty  lips  and  spirits,  and  doth  twine 
Garments  for  all  our  nakedness.     O  Thine 
Is  life  and  happiness,  and  Thou  hast  spread 


32  POEMS. 

Beauty  beneath  our  feet,  and  overhead 
Surpassing  splendor. 

O  Father,  may 

I  ever  thank  Thee,  and  forever  pray 
Even  as  I  pray  this  eve,  that  Thou  wilt  bring 
Such  solace  to  my  spirit ;  let  me  cling 
To  these  thy  glorious  garments,  and  upspring 
And  melt  into  thy  being.     Let  me  be 
Imbued  with  but  one  spirit,  poesy  ! 
And  in  the  living  numbers  of  the  soul 
Weave  all  my  dreams  of  glory,  let  me  roll 
My  weary  heart  cords  in  the  crystal  sea 
Of  thy  perpetual  love,  and  worship  Thee, 
The  giver  of  all  good  and  perfect  gifts  ; 
Thee,  only  infinite,  whose  presence  lifts 
And  bears  me  unto  triumph. 

Lo,  I've  done  ! 

The  evening  is  far  gone,  and  I  have  won 
The  crown  immortal.     There  is  joy  and  peace 
Within  my  bosom,  and  a  sweet  release 
Has  passed  upon  the  chains  that  held  me  long 
To  shrines  of  idols.     A  resplendant  throng, 
Quiver  on  golden  wings  along  the  skies, 
Tearful  and  glad.     To-morrow  shall  arise 


POEMS.  33 

The  sun  with  fresher  beauty,  and  will  shine 
Upon  these  vallies,  and  wierd  hills  of  Thine, 
Upon  the  face  of  man,  and  on  the  flowers, 
And  music  shall  arise  from  many  bowers, 
Soft  as  the  breath  of  myrrh ;  and  there  will  be 
Hymnings  and  trustful  prayers,  a  symphony 
Of  lips  made  eloquent  by  love  to  Thee, 
O  grant  it  spirit  Father,  infinite, 
'Till  all  have  learned  to  worship  Thee  aright ! 


A  new  made  grave  ! 

Among  the  willows,  whose  long  branches  wave 
Like  weeping  angel's  hair — and  here  she  lies, 
Silent  and  low  beneath  the  clouded  skies, 
Through  which  the  stars  look  down  with  tearful  eyes. 
Mournful  and  sad.     A  rose  from  blasted  tree, 
Brought  to  a  stranger's  crimsoned  land  to  be 
The  sport  of  death,  O  such  was  Dohummee  ! 
But  yesterday  her  laugh  rang  in  the  wild 
Dim  woods  away,  and  she  was  nature's  child, 
Sportive  and  free — to-day  upon  the  bier 
In  a  great  city's  streets,  her  brief  career 
Closed  to  the  world. — 
3 


34  POEMS. 

A  new  made  grave  !* 
The  resting  place  of  the  poor  Indian  girl, 
Whose  spirit  would  not  stay  'mong  those  who  slaved 
And  drove  away  her  race.     The  young  flowers  curl 
Their  lips  above  her  dust,  and  fondly  save 
The  dampness  of  the  night  to  dim  their  eyes 
With  pitying  tears,  and  low  the  soft  wind  sighs 
Its  sorrowing  for  the  dead.     Above  her,  'graved 
With  words  a  gushing  soul  hath  spoken, 
The  marble  lifts  its  brow,  at  least  a  token 
Of  one's  deep  love — Aye,  there  unbroken 
The  silence  of  its  lips  shall  ever  tell, 
How  sympathized  that  heart,  how  strong  the  spell 
That  bound  Wacontamf  to  her  dark  eyed  sister ; 
How  in  the  sadness  of  that  bitter  hour 
Which  robbed  the  earth  of  one  unspotted  flower, 
She  stooped  above  the  couch  and  kissed  her, 
Wiping  her  fevered  brow  with  gentle  hand  ; 
And  the  stern  braves  will  curse  the  stranger's  land 
With  less  of  scorn,  when  they  have  learned  how  well 
A  woman's  love  has  done. — 

A  new  made  grave  ! 

Her  childhood's  home  is  far  amid  the  wood, 
Where  leap  the  springs,  and  where  the  river  flood 
Bears  not  a  keel ;  her  childhood's  happy  home 

*  Greenwood.  t  Mrs.  C.  M.  Sawyer. 


POEMS.  35 

Clustering  with  flowers,  and  giant  trees,  that  wave 
Defiance  to  the  fire  of  clouds,  and  brave 
The  tempest's  wrath.     No  more  her  feet  shall  tread 
That  forest  path,  where  scarce  the  rabbit  fled 
From  her  sweet  gaze  ;  the  Indian  rose  is  dead, 
And  flowers  of  its  own  hue  are  loudly  weeping, 
While  she,  the  stricken,  by  the  ocean  sleeping, 
Hears  not  their  voice ;  yet  heareth  she  the  surge 
Which  thunders  with  its  everlasting  dirge, 
The  requiem   of  her  race. — 

A  new  made  grave  ! 
Bearing  forever  in  its  arms  of  dust, 
A  fresh,  a  beautiful,  arid  sacred  trust, 
To  which  the  heart  that  hath  a  tear  shall  turn 
And  give  it  to  the  sleeping  one  ;  and  he, 
The  Father  of  that  bud,  the  broken  stem 
From  which  hath  drop't  the  frail  and  spotless  gem, 
Although  the  turf  he  may  not  ever  see  ; 
Shall  know  as  comes  her  spirit  on  the  wind, 
That  friends  are  by  the  grave  he  left  behind, 
Watching  the  ashes  of  that  beauteous  child, 
And  love  shall  steal  into  his  bosom  wild, 
And  he  will  bless  Wacontam,  even  she, 
Who  loved,  and  watched,  and  wept  for  Dohummee ! 


What  whim  hath  fired  the  warrior's  soul 

Whose  lance  should  now  be  couched  in  rest  ? 

Why  goes  he  forth  whose  battle  goal 

Was  woo'd  long  years  ago,  and  prest  ? 

What  dream  hath  stirred  De  Leon's  heart, 

That  he  should  toss  those  locks  of  grey 

Upon  the  ocean  breeze,  and  part 

From  Spain  and  soft  repose  away  ? 

Gb  ask  the  warrior,  let  him  tell, 

Bid  him  reveal  the  wondrous  spell 

That  charms  him  from  his  native  land : — 

His  sword  has  tried  the  combat  well. 

His  ear  has  heard  the  triumph  swell, 

And  fame  has  rested  on  his  brand  ; 

His  palaces  with  gold  are  filled, 

His  slaves  unto  his  will  are  willed, 

Why  ventures  forth  the  hero  more  ? 

Ah  !  what  though  empire  were  his  own, 

Himself  a  monarch  on  the  throne 

With  armies  tramping  at  his  word — 

And  glory  glistening  from  his  sword 

O'er  cities  sacked  in  seas  of  gore — 


POEMS.  37 

Think  ye  't  can  sate  that  prisoned  fire, 
The  touch  of  age  but  lashes  higher  ? 
De  Leon's  youth  and  strength  are  past, 
His  brow  has  felt  the  withering  blast, 
And  though  his  laurels  freshly  wave, 
Although  his  heart  be  stern  and  brave 
For  deeds  that  gave  his  youth  renown, 
The  dream  has  changed  from  glorious  light 
Which  wed  him  with  its  visions  bright ! 

What  to  the  soul  that's  chafed  with  years 
Is  all  the  glittering  wealth  of  mines  ! 
What  are  the  trophies  glory  rears 
Where  lance  and  banner  gaily  shines  ? 
Can  these  the  light  of  heaven  restore, 
Give  back  the  heart  its  youth,  and  zeal, 
And  rouse  the  spirit  as  before 
With  gleamings  youth  can  only  feel  ? 
Nay  !  to  yon  oak  the  storm  has  bowed, 
On  which  the  lightning  fiercely  sprung 
With  ruin  from  the  opening  cloud — 
Restore  the  leaves  that  round  it  clung  ; 
Give  back  its  life — and  to  the  heart 
Thy  touch  may  strength,  and  youth  impart ! 

If  only  fame  the  warrior  asked, 
And  fame  could  pay  for  waste  of  years — 
3* 


gg  POEMS. 

If  to  the  spirit,  soiled  and  tasked, 
And  withered  to  a  spring  of  tears, 
The  world  could  give  a  single  hour 
Untainted  by  the  tyrant's  power 
Who  shrivels,  and  decays  the  heart ; 
De  Leon's  feet  had  never  prest 
The  valleys  where  his  golden  dream, 
Saw  life's  sweet  childhood  rising  blest 
With  a  fresh  youth's  perpetual  gleam. 

Some  wind  unto  his  ear  had  borne 
A  whisper  from  a  stranger  land, 
A  voice  that  with  the  purple  morn, 
And  on  his  night  dreams  softly  broke, 
And  in  his  inmost  soul  awoke 
A  wild  strange  ecstacy — it  came, 
As  spirits  come,  who  gently  weave 
Around  our  troubled  souls  at  eve, 
O'er  every  ill,  and  every  sorrow, 
The  gleamings  of  a  golden  morrow. 
It  told  him  of  a  wondrous  spring 
Whose  waters  had  the  power  to  heal 
The  wreck  of  other  years,  and  bring 
The  prime  of  boyhood  back,  and  seal 
His  griefs  and  wrinkles  in  a  grave 
As  deep,  and  strong  as  Lethe's  wave  ! 


POEMS.  39 

Perpetual  youth  !  what  houri  spell 
Could  charm  the  heart  of  age  so  well  ? 
Perpetual  youth  !     Each  passing  wind 
Bespoke  the  fount,  and  bade  him  find 
The  magic  which  should  back  restore 
The  beauty  that  his  childhood  wore. 
It  was  no  dreaming  of  the  heart, 
No  castle  of  his  fancy's  art ; 
The  wish  that  o'er  his  bosom  crossed  * 

When  all  that  sweetened  life  was  lost, 
A  wish  which  every  heart  has  felt, 
That  we  might  kneel,  as  we  had  knelt, 
With  childhood's  hands  toss  up  the  flowers 
And  feel  no  weariness  of  hours  ; 
A  wish  like  this,  caught  up  the  tale 
Which  came  upon  the  ocean  gale, 
And  Leon  to  the  westward  turned, 
As  to  an  altar  whereon  burned 
The  vestal  fire  by  Allah  given, 
To  lure  the  wanderer  into  heaven. 

Once  more  the  bridle  to  the  steed, 

Once  more  the  lance  av/ay  from  rest, 

His  barque  is  on  the  ocean's  breast, 

Its  wings  have  caught  the  lightning's  speed  : 

Away  !  away  !  until  the  stream 

Which  flashed  upon  his  warrior  dream, 


40  POEMS. 

Has  burst  with  its  perennial  tide, 

And  back  restored  him  manhoods's  pride. 

Away  !  away  !  until  his  brow 

So  haggard,  stained,  and  wrinkled  now, 

Is  smooth  as  that  in  days  of  yore 

His  gay  and  happy  childhood  bore. 

What  helmets  gleam  in  Leon's  train, 

The  stoutest  hearts,  the  flower  of  Spain 

Have  gathered  to  the  warrior's  side, 

To  help  him  woo  that  mystic  bride 

Whose  smile  the  world  had  never  seen — 

Amid  Florida's  forest  green 

The  hero's  steed,  his  curb-bit  champing, 

Is  to  the  sound  of  bugles  tramping ; 

Ho  !  up  at  morn,  on,  on  'till  night, 

No  rest  until  that  fountain  bright 

Leaps  up  to  meet  the  warrior's  eye, 

Until  he  drinks  and  cannot  die. 

What  months  are  passed  in  search  and  fray, 

What  hours  are  lost  by  sad  delay, 

How  droop  the  plumes  and  banners  gay  ; 

The  gold  he  scattered  in  the  sand 

Has  not  yet  turned  to  wizard's  wand, 

The  fainting  youths  are  worn  and  tired, 

A  part  have  sickened  and  expired  ; 

Still  is  De  Leon's  bosom  fired, 


POEMS.  41 

Still  gleams  that  fountain  on  his  view  ; 
As  on,  o'er  hills,  and  valleys  through, 
He  only  adds  to  wrinkles  gained, 
A  heart  o'er  sickened  more  and  pained. 

O  can  he  yield  that  dream  of  hope, 
Must  he  return,  nor  find  the  well, 
Whose  bubbling  gave  his  soul  a  spell, 
That  for  a  day  had  power  to  ope 
Elysian  gates  before  his  eyes, 
A  fond  and  fleeting  paradise  ? 
Nay  !  on  the  die  his  life  is  cast, 
In  spite  of  storm  and  winter  blast, 
By  all  he  loved,  or  once  defied, 
By  all  he  dared,  and  would  have  died 
To  win  on  fields  with  strength  of  arm, 
He  swears  to  bide  and  seek  the  charm. 

But  time  hath  more  than  warrior's  nerve, 
Or  warrior  boast,  or  warrior  steel : 
The  wearied  spirit  soon  shall  swerve 
And  in  its  ruined  castle  reel ; 
And  he  who  rode  with  iron  heel 
When  war  shook  out  her  banners  dun, 
Shall  faint  before  that  fount  is  won ! 
By  toil  o'er  spent,  De  Leon's  lies, 
The  sickness'  damp  upon  his  brow, 


42  POEMS. 

A  child  in  grief  and  trouble  now, 
A  youth  in  all  but  will  and  soul, 
As  down  the  Mississippi's  wave 
They  bear  him  onward  to  his  grave.* 

'Tis  hard  to  leave  this  glorious  world, 
To  fold  our  arms,  and  yield  and  die, 
To  smile  upon  the  smiling  sky, 
Which  like  a  robe  of  light  unfurled, 
Casts  many  a  glance  to  woo  us  back  ; 
'Tis  hard  to  feel  the  last  lone  sigh 
Press  o'er  the  portal  of  the  soul, 
Away  from  home,  no  mother  nigh 
To  calm  the  bitter  waves  that  roll 
And  dash  around  the  palsied  heart ; 
How  one  will  fear,  and  shrink,  and  start,- 
Not  yet  prepared,  nor  ready  yet, 
When,  lo !  the  summons  comes  to  quit, 
And  'mid  our  fevered  dreams  we  sink, 
A  moment,  quiver  on  the  brink, 
Then  plunge  into  a  darksome  river, 
The  light  of  Hope  put  out  forever ! 

Thus  Leon's  soul  by  phrenzy  tost 
O'er  all  his  dream  so  loved,  and  lost, 
Strives  with  the  fatal  hour  ; 

*  Died  in  Cuba. 


POEMS.  43 

The  sultry  winds  that  round  him  wing 
Their  forest  fragrance,  ever  bring 
The  waters  of  his  fabled  spring, 
And  with  a  fiendish  power 
Elude  his  lips,  and  only  press 
The  poison  weeds  of  bitterness 
Upon  his  parched  and  burning  tongue, 
They  whisper,  rise,  be  young !  be  young  ! 
Were  he  with  Atlas'  sinews  fraught, 
And  all  the  armies  here  who  fought 
Obedient  to  his  olden  word, 
Though  he  the  Genii's  wondrous  sword, 
Or  that  which  cleft  the  Gordian  knot 
Could  wield  with  twenty  giant's  might, 
He  could  not  win  one  sparkle  bright, 
Nor  stay  the  sand  in  yonder  glass. 

De  Leon,  thou  must  henceward  pass  ! 

To-day's  the  last,  the  warrior's  bed 

This  eve,  will  be  in  darkness  spread, 

Far  down  in  his  cold  river  home  ! 

What  fearful  strife  hath  rent  his  heart, 

The  dream  is  o'er  and  he  must  part. 

Gaze,  Leon,  quick  !  for  more  thine  eye 

Shall  never  look  on  earth  or  sky, 

Behold  the  sun's  declining  beams, 

How  through  these  trees  its  brightness  streams  ; 


44  POEMS. 

To-morrow  morn  shall  see  them  glide 

As  sweetly  o'er  the  crested  tide, 

While  thou  from  fount,  and  life,  and  day, 

Art  wrapt  in  silence  far  away. 

The  chief  has  looked,  his  gasping  breath 

Proclaims  the  triumph  tread  of  death, 

The  oars  are  muffled,  and  a  dirge, 

The  sad,  are  wailing  to  the  surge  ; 

He,  who  had  searched  and  thirsted  long, 

No  more  a  partner  of  their  throng. 

Deep  on  that  river's  bottom  lies, 

Beneath  the  glance  of  jewelled  skies, 

All  cold,  and  desolate,  arid  lone, 

The  conquered  on  his  dreamless  throne : 

With  plume  and  belt,  and  helm  arrayed, 

His  arms  across  his  bosom  laid, 

He  waits  the  trumpet's  twang,  to  mount 

And  further  search  that  mystic  fount, 

Which  kept  retreating  from  his  eye, 

Until  he  laid  him  down  to  die. 

It  little  reek's  how  well  he  fought, 

What  legions  yielded  to  his  sword, 

That  simple  fount,  though  fearless  sought, 

The  hero's  triumph  hour  deferred, 

And  as  it  laid  him  down  to  rest, 

Tore  all  the  trophies  he  had  prest 


POEMS.  45 

From  warrior  brows  in  battle  brave, 
And  left  him  but  a  stricken  slave. 

Yet  cold  as  sleeps  De  Leon's  clay, 
And  long  as  he  has  passed  away, 
Though  all  unseen  the  fountain  deep, 
It  was  no  dream  that  magic  spring ; 
For  even  now  its  waters  leap, 
And  all  around  our  presence  fling 
The  shadows  of  a  fresher  clime, 
And  kindlings  of  a  day  sublime 
Within  the  heart,  and  on  the  soul, 
Like  floods  of  summer  glory  roll ; 
And  'mid  their  brightness  softly  stealing, 
Comes  that  wondrous  spring's  revealing, 
Seen  with  keener  eyes  than  shine, 
Through  those  weary  lids  of  thine ; 
Seen  like  spring's  first  glances  flashing, 
Or  Castalia's  waters  dashing 
Round  the  troubled  spirit's  shrine. 

Not  where  rise  the  western  hills, 

Nor  where  leap  the  mountain  rills 

Through  the  vale  of  golden  sand  ; 

In  no  far  and  fabled  land 

Where  the  black  cloud  fiercely  bursteth, 

And  the  toil  worn  soldier  thirsteth 


46  POEMS. 

(Tired  of  searching  thus  in  vain) 

For  his  native  land  again. 

Ne'er  shall  eye  of  man  behold  it, 

Ne'er  the  light  of  day  unfold  it, 

To  the  tramp  of  warrior  feet ; 

Too  far,J)e  Leon,  thou  hast  sought, 

Too  madly  wished,  too  fiercely  wrought, 

And  only  gained  a  stern  defeat! 

The  spring  was  on  thy  native  shore, 

Not  where  the  foamy  waters  roar, 

Which  woo  the  crowds  that  ever  press 

To  drink  their  showy  wretchedness, 

But  in  a  lone  and  quiet  spot, 

A  holy  cave,  a  sacred  grot, 

Where  from  the  world  and  wo  apart, 

Hath  sprung  the  pure  and  stainless  heart, 

How  much  of  toil  the  soul  has  borne, 
How  many  rankling  fetters  worn 
Whose  trophies  were  a  wrinkled  brow, 
A  spirit  wrecked  and  crushed  with  fear, 
Affections  dwindled  up  and  sear, 
A  manhood  forced  to  cringe  and  bow, 
While  yet  the  fire  within  was  left 
To  burn  the  cords  of  life  bereft, 
And  make  the  palace  desolate, 
Wherein  had  dwelt  a  stormy  fate. 


POEMS.  47 

How  much  of  youth  is  idly  lost, 
How  much  of  hoary  age's  frost 
Our  hands  have  loaded  on  the  heart, 
How  many  a  bluntly  barbed  dart 
Has  left  the  passion  fevered  string, 
A  curse  upon  itself  to  bring. 

De  Leon's  feet  were  not  alone, 

The  pilgrims  throng  from  every  zone, 

And  search  as  wild,  and  long  as  he; 

The  dream  has  made  in  every  breast 

Itself,  a  loved,  and  welcome  guest, 

All  strive  to  live  their  childhood  o'er, 

To  find  the  calm  they  felt  before, 

When  youth  from  guilt,  and  stain  was  free ! 

Some  bathe  their  lips  in  pleasure's  well, 

Some  weave  their  robe  of  fancy's  spell, 

And  some  dive  deep  in  folly's  swell 

To  stay  the  steps  of  withering  age — 

As  well  defy  the  tempest's  rage, 

As  well  unhorse  the  fiery  scathe 

That  leaps  from  thunder  cloud  in  wrath, 

As  stem  the  tide,  and  curse  of  years 

With  dreams  v/hich  only  end  in  tears. 

Nay  !  on  thy  brow  the  seal  is  set,- 
The  woes  and  storms  De  Leon  met, 


48  POEMS. 

If  thus  ye  search,  are  ever  thine  : 

But  turn,  and  ye  may  find  the  spring, 

The  fountain  shall  its  waters  fling 

And  give  thee  back  thy  childhood's  shrine  ! 

Shake  not  the  spear,  nor  toss  the  glaive, 

Loose  not  thy  barque  upon  the  wave, 

Nor  hope,  nor  dream,  that  far  away, 

Serener  hues  of  summer  play — 

Bend  here  thy  brow  with  holier  zeal 

Where  virtue  rears  her  glorious  throne, 

And  like  the  spicy  winds  that  steal 

From  isles  where  fadeless  flowers  have  blown, 

Shalt  thou  a  radiant  halo  feel ; 

That  fount,  thy  heart  is  deep  within, 

From  thence  its  gleamings  thou  must  win, 

There  drink,  where  living  waters  roll, 

And  o'er  the  manhood  of  the  soul, 

Shall  love,  and  faith,  and  hope,  and  truth, 

Restore  thee  to  perpetual  youth. 


a 


A  babe  upon  the  plains  of  Bethlehem  ! 
Fair  as  the  morning  star,  that  orient  gem 


POEMS.  49 

Which  beamed  upon  the  shepherds  eyes,  and  led 
Their  eager  feet  beside  his  lowly  bed, 
The  manger's  straw.     A  child  most  beautiful, 
With  blossom  on  his  lips,  and  in  his  full 
Deep  eyes  a  holy  love,  as  on  the  face 
Of  his  young  mother,  with  a  wistful  gaze 
Lingers  his  placid  look.     A  spell  of  grace 
No  cheek  has  ever  worn,  around  him  plays, 
Like  sunset's  flashing  on  the  silver  stream ; 
And  forth  his  hands  are  reached,  as  in  our  dream 
Angels  of  shadow  beckon.     Lo,  around, 
Breaketh  a  song  of  Seraph's,  a  sweet  sound 
Of  tongues  invisible,  crying,  "  behold, 
We  bring  good  tidings  of  great  joy,  of  old 
Unto  all  people  promised,  whom  ye  seek, 
Is  Christ,  the  holy  one,"  the  low  and  meek  ; 
Who  though  he  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head, 
Shall  yet  arise,  and  in  the  temple  tread, 
Jesus  the  Wonderful !  "for  he  shall  save 
His  people  from  their  sins,"  and  from  the  grave. 

A  child  among  the  Doctors,  with  grave  brow 
Teaching  his  strange  philosophy.     They  bow 
In  mute  astonishment,  with  eager  ear 
The  words  of  wisdom  from  such  lips  to  hear  ; 
For,  lo  !  he  tells  them  like  some  gifted  seer, 
Their  dispensation  is  fulfilled.     They  cry 
4* 


50  POEMS. 

"  He  blasphemeth,  and  speakelh  but  a  lie  !" 
Yet  calm  is  Christ,  the  mission  from  above, 
His  Father's  glory,  and  his  Father's  love, 
Soothe  and  sustain  him,  he  is  strong, 
And  they  have  turned  away,  that  listening  throng, 
With  a  deep  reverence  for  the  boy. 

A  man, 

Perfect  in  stature,  bidding  with  sweet  voice 
The  multitude  to  listen  and  rejoice, 
As  fell  those  words  of  love,  and  from  his  tongue 
Peace  and  good-will  like  heavenly  music  rung  ; 
While  at  his  touch,  the  palsied  from  his  bed 
Rose  in  his  strength,  the  lame  from  crutches  fled, 
The  blind  regained  their  sight,  and  e'en  the  dead 
Bursting  their  narrow  graves,  arose, 
And  casting  off  their  damp  and  mouldy  clothes, 
Smiled  as  though  roused  from  slumber. 

Aye  !  a  man, 

Holy  and  pure,  but  such  as  ne'er  before 
Trode  in  the  earth,  or  spake  such  wondrous  lore, 
Teaching  the  very  God — Himself  the  Son 
Speaking  but  in  his  Father's  name,  as  one 
Commissioned  to  the  lost,  bearing  the  seal, 
Which  was  to  man,  to  all  mankind  reveal 
The  Father's  infinite  love,  and  from  the  chain 


POEMS.  51 

Abaddon  had  cast  'round,  restore  again 
The  children  of  His  image.     Wondrous  man, 
God-head  in  feeble  clay,  to  live,  and  learn, 
And  be  example  perfect ;  and  to  burn 
Radiant  before  the  world,  be  mocked,  arid  scourged, 
But  never  waver — calm,  though  fiercely  urged, 
Bitterer  than  hemlock  drinking,  until  he, 
Became,  O  God,  a  sacrifice  for  Thee. 

List  to  his  word, 

Strange  word  !     What  ear  of  man  has  ever  heard 
Sentence  like  these  ?  "  Bless  them  who  curse,  and 

love 

All  those  who  hate  ;  to  others  as  ye  would 
That  they  should  do,  do  ye,  be  kind  and  good, 
With  all  thy  might,  and  mind,  and  strength,  above 
Send  up  thy  spirit's  worship."     Thus  he  spoke, 
As  to  the  multitude  his  fingers  broke 
The  bread  of  life.     Around  him  how  they  throng, 
Unlettered  fisherman,  children  with  song 
Upon  their  lips  ;  sweet  gems,  "  Of  such  as  these," 
Said  Christ,  as  eagerly  upon  his  knees 
They  clung,  in  robes  of  loveliness  arrayed, 
"My  Father's  kingdom  is,  His  heaven  is  made 
Of  pure  young  hearts  ;  O  suffer  them  to  be 
Lambs  of  the  fold,  and  followers  of  me, 
Who  am  my  Father's  shepherd." 


52  POEMS. 

Strange  man,  to-day, 
He  bendeth  clown  in  Jordan's  silver  tide, 
Unstained  e'en  from  his  birth,  and  purified 
To  do  his  work  of  love — who  yet,  the  way 
Would  teach,  even  as  the  Father  wills  ;  "  Repent, 
Believe,  and  be  baptized  !"  Lo,  see  him  now 
Standing  amid  the  waves,  upon  his  brow 
Celestial  halo  beams,  and  like  a  dove 
Descends  the  holy  spirit  from  above, 
And  through  the  curtain  of  the  Heaven's  rent, 
The  Father,  smiling  on  His  only  son, 
Says,  "  This  is  my  beloved,  what  he  hath  done 
Has  pleased  me  well." 

There  is  a  clamor  now, 
The  worshippers  of  unknown  Gods  arise, 
Thirsting  for  blood.    They  brand  him  with  all  lies, 
Crying,  "  He  eateth  with  unclean."     They  show, 
That  he  hath  banded  with  the  poor  and  low, 
With  "  publicans  and  sinners,"  and  hath  said, 
"  I  am  the  son  of  God  !"     Aloud  they  cry, 
Down  with  the  impious,  and  on  his  head 
They  set  a  price,  and  swear  that  he  shall  die  ; 
Yet  tremble  they  before  his  words,  for,  lo  ! 
Their  eyes  have  seen  the  lame  and  halting  go, 
Casting  away  the  crutch,  and  up  the  dead 
Have  sprung  to  life  before  them  with  firm  tread, 


POEMS.  53 

And  praising  lips.     Although  they  turn  and  say, 
"  In  name  of  Beelzebub,  his  prince,  to-day, 
He  casteth  devils  out,  and  stills  the  waves, 
Gives  sight  to  blind,  and  robs  the  prison  graves 
Of  their  mute  sleepers,"  still  they  fear  to  bring 
The  holy  one  to  judgment. 

Yet  the  time  is  come, 

When  he  must  drink  the  cup,  although  he  pray 
"  Father,  I  would  that  it  might  pass  away, 
Yet  not  my  will,  but  Thine,  O  God,  be  done," 
The  mandate  has  gone  forth  !     The  bond  is  done, 
For  they,  with  thirty  pieces  have  bribed  one, 
Who  shall  salute  him  with  a  kiss,  and  pierce 
His  trusting  side,  while  bitterly  and  fierce 
His  foes  shall  try,  and  mock  him,  and  condemn, 
And  lead  him  forth,  who  never  gave  to  them 
One  bitter  word.     'Tis  the  last  night, 
And  the  last  supper  they  have  gathered  'round, 
The  Master  and  his  followers.     There  is  no  sound 
Of  joy  upon  their  tongues,  for  Christ  hath  said, 
E'en  as  he  poured  the  wine,  and  broke  the  bread, 
"  As  often  as  ye  do  this,  think  of  me, 
My  time  is  come ;  for  one  of  you  shall  be 
This  evening  my  betrayer  !"     "  Is  it,  I .?" 
With  one  accord  the  grieved  disciples  cry ; 
"  Who  dippeth  in  the  sop,"  the  master  saith,  <;  'tis 
he." 


54  POEMS. 

Forth  to  the  Mount  of  Olives,  sadly,  they 

Have  gone  with  stricken  hearts,  to  watch  and  pray, 

That  flock  which  shall  be  scattered — .Christ  alone 

Goeth  aside,  for  sorrowful  of  soul, 

He  hides  the  grief  he  cannot  all  control ; 

Leaving  the  watch  which  he  hath  set,  he  kneels, 

And  as  the  wind  upon  his  forehead  steals, 

It  fans  the  sweat  of  agony.  "  O  God," 

He  prays,  "  if  Thou  canst  stay  the  rod, 

And  take  the  cup,  I  would,  but  do  thy  will ;" 

Thrice  he  hath  prayed,  and  rises  to  fulfil 

The  sacrifice.     The  weary  watchers  sleep, 

Though  thrice  he  woke  them,  let  them  keep 

Their  slumber  now,  his  hour  is  come ! 

While  yet  he  spoke, 

A  multitude  with  staves  the  silence  broke, 
With  Judas  in  their  midst — "  whom  I  salute," 
The  traitor  whispered  to  the  throng,  "  is  he  ;" 
And  forth  he  went,  saying,  "Master,  hail  to  thee  !" 
"  Whence  artthou  friend?"  saidChrist;  but  Judas 

mute, 

Spake  not  a  word.     Then  seized  the  rabble  hold, 
And  led  him  to  Caiphas,  the  high  priest, 
Saying,  "  this  fellow  saith,  he  can  pull  down 
And  build  the  temple  in  three  days,"  while  he, 
Said  not  a  word,  which  but  increased 


POEMS.  55 

The  people's  rage— -C alphas,  with  a  frown, 
Adjured  him  by  the  living  God,  "  art  thou, 
The  son  of  God,  the  Christ  ?"  with  fearless  brow, 
".So  thou  hast  said,"  spake  Christ?  "I  say  to  thee, 
Hereafter  in  the  heavens  thou  shalt  see, 
Coming  in  clouds  at  the  right  hand  of  power 
The  Son  of  whom  ye  speak."     Then,  in  that  hour, 
"  Away,  away!  he  blasphemeth,"  they  cry  ; 
Bear  him  away  to  death,  and  crucify 
Him  on  the  cross.     O  God,  is  this  thy  son, 
Climbing  the  rugged  hill,  what  hath  he  done 
But  bless  and  bind  up  wounds,  and  must  he  die 
With  malefactors  ?  even  so  !  they  bring 
A  crown  of  thorns,  and  hail  him  as  their  king  ; 
Spit  on  his  face,  and  smite  him  with  a  reed, 
And  robe  those  sides  with  scarlet,  which  shall  bleed 
For  human  kind. 

Lo,  they  have  found  a  place  ; 
Golgotha  of  the  hills  !  where  they  have  thrown 
The  sculls  of  slain,  here  shall  the  parting  groan 
Be  tortured  from  that  breast ;  they  give  him  gall 
And  vinegar  to  drink,  and  mocking  call 
Him  Lord.     The  Cross  is  reared,  and  he  between 
Two  thieves  is  nailed,  and  crucified  !  what  gloom 
Is  in  the  sky  !  the  temple's  veil  is  rent, 
And  there  are  voices  in  the  firmament ; 


56  POEMS. 

The  mountains  rock  around,  and  e'en  the  tomb 
Gives  up  its  dead — "  Eloi !  Eloi !"  he  cries 
And  to  his  lips  they  press  the  sponge  ;  tis  o'er ! 
He  yieldeth  up  the  ghost,  his  sacrifice 
Is  done  ! 

Now,  triumph,  ye  who  hate  ! 

The  Christ  is  dead,  and  they  have  ta'en  him  forth 
Bloody  and  pale,  and  laid  him  in  the  earth  ; 
Aye,  triumph  now,  yet  be  not  too  elate, 
For,  lo  !  in  three  short  days  he  shall  arise 
Even  as  he  said,  and  up  into  the  skies 
Ascend  to  God.     Put  watch  around  his  grave, 
And  seal  the  stone  ;  array  yourselves,  ye  brave, 
And  guard  the  crucified,  be  strong,  lest  he, 
Whom  ye  have  scourged,  and  mocked  on  Calvary, 
Should  'scape  from  that  hewn  rock. 

Three  days  have  passed, 
And  forth  his  followers  hasten — Mary  first 
Has  found  the  Sepulchre.     O  woman,  thus, 
Forever  earliest  on  the  wings  of  love, 
Art  thou  an  angel  visitant  to  us, 
Even  as  to  him,  who  from  above 
Came  down  to  save;  our  oil  of  hope,  the  dove, 
Bringing  us  olive  leaves.     She  came, 
And  lo,  the  stone  was  rolled  away,  and  burst 
Were  all  the  seals  of  death ;  the  shroud  was  there, 


POEMS.  57 

And  two  bright  angels  watching  by  his  bed, 
Who,  when  they  saw  her  tremble,  called  her  name, 
"Woman,  fear  not,  tho  Christ  is  risen  ?"  Then  fled 
She  to  the  city,  whither  he  was  gone. 
Yes,  he  was  risen !  what  grave,  what  stone  could  hold 
The  Son  of  God  ?  what  damp,  or  charnel  mould 
Gather  upon  his  brow  ?  To  join  his  flock 
He  had  o'er  mastered  death,  and  from  the  rock 
Sprung  forth  to  life  !    The  baffled  watch  may  say, 
"  While  we  were  sleeping,  he  was  stole  away," 
They  swear  to  lies  ;  have  not  the  faithful  seen 
Their  risen  Lord  ?   aye  !  multitudes  have  cried 
With  doubting  Thomas,  as  they  saw  his  side 
Pierced  through  with  wounds,  "  He  is  the  Christ." 

Now  caught  to  Heaven, 

At  the  right  hand  of  God,  where  he  shall  draw 
"  All  men  to  him,"  all  whom  the  father's  given, 
And  he  has  given  u  all  things"  to  Christ ;  the  law 
Is  now  made  honorable,  and  he, 
Shall  henceforth  reign  with  God,  and  be 
The  Savior  glorified.     Shout  every  tongue, 
And  hail  the  Lord  !  O  let,  on  bended  knee, 
My  spirit  weave  a  worship  song,  let  me, 
Even  as  the  morning  stars  with  rapture  sung, 
Sing  unto  my  Redeemer  ;  unto  Thee, 
O  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  Amen  ! 
5 


RKKHWOOD. 


Place  for  the  Dead  !  what  fairer  place 
Than  here  amid  these  hillocks  green, 
Where  through  the  tangled  willows,  chace 
The  sun-beams  o'er  the  scented  grass, 
By  many  a  fairy  dell,  and  pass, 
To  cheer  the  dust  below  I  ween  ? 
O,  what  are  pyramids,  where  slaves 
Have  bent  their  brows,  and  sweat  their  blood  ; 
And  who  would  sleep  in  those  wierd  graves 
Where  endless  nights  of  darkness  brood, 
When  there  are  spots  like  these — where  laid, 
Our  sleep  will  be  beneath  the  sky, 
Whose  stars  upon  our  turf  shall  braid 
The  glory  of  their  evening  glance, 
While  morning's  beams  around  us  dance, 
And  kiss  the  flowers  that  cluster  by? 

Place  for  the  Dead  !  how  glorious  here 
'Mong  all  these  shrubs  and  waving  trees, 
To  lie  and  have  the  ocean  breeze, 
Come  freshly  up  to  fan  the  sod, 
To  know  the  dust  around  is  trod 


POEMS.  59 

By  curious  feet — that  weepers  tears 

Shall  wet  our  couch  through  future  years, 

And  youths,  ?  nd  maids,  in  summer  hours, 

From  noise  of  cities  far  away, 

Will  love  among  the  dead  to  stray, 

And  strew  our  graves  with  sweetest  flowers  ! 

How  ope's  this  morn  its  cloudless  eye, 

How  streams  the  sun  its  sparkling  hair, 

The  pomp  and  glory  of  the  sky 

Come  quivering  through  the  fragrant  air ; 

The  gentle  hand  of  time  has  prest 

The  summer's  loom,  and  wrought  a  vest 

Of  purple,  gold,  and  amethyst ; 

And  here  where  fairy's  hold  their  tryst 

The  blue  lip't  violets  are  strown. 

What  softer,  fairer,  coverlid, 

Could  mortal  ask  beneath  the  sky  ? 

What  counterpane  of  lovelier  dye 

The  form  of  Tyrian  king  hath  hid, 

In  couch  perfumed  with  smell  of  myrrh, 

Than  this  green  turf,  the  summer's  throne  ? 

Where  every  passing  breeze  shall  stir 

A  cloud  of  roses  from  their  rest ; 

O  who  would  ask  above  his  breast, 

More  splendor  than  this  golden  day 

Upon  the  Greenwood  turf  has  prest  ? 


60  POEMS. 

And  ah  !  when  comes  such  glorious  eve, 
With  murmurings  from  the  distant  sea, 
When  every  rose  has  bowed  to  grieve 
And  catch  the  dew  drops  silently  ; 
Who  could  not  sleep,  who  would  not  die 
Beneath  these  scented  leaves  to  lie — 
Who  would  not  say  to  pain  adieu, 
And  ask  the  cooling  wings  of  death 
To  fan  away  the  fevered  breath  ; 
So  we  might  rest  beneath  the  blue, 
And  have  our  watchers  in  the  sky, 
With  many  a  dark  and  tearful  eye 
Of  human  mould  to  weep  for  us — 
Who  \vould  not  deem  it  glorious,  thus, 
To  bid  his  griefs  and  ills  farewell, 
And  here  in  this  sweet  silence  dwell  ? 

Give  me  a  grave  away  from  kings, 

Away  from  pomp,  away  from  power, 

Build  neither  arch  nor  vault  for  me  ; 

But  lay  me  in  the  quiet  earth, 

As  robeless  as  I  came  at  birth, 

No  slab,  or  shrine  to  mark  the  place — 

O  lay  me  in  the  spot  where  springs 

The  white  cheeked  lilly,  and  the  rose, 

Ah,  here,  in  some  sweet  Greenwood  bower, 

Beneath  the  shade  of  willow  tree, 


POEMS. 

Where  vine  around  the  moss  bank  clings, 
And  let  me  dream  the  long,  long  hour, 
Away  from  life's  unyielding  woes ! 

Place  for  the  Dead  !     O  let  me  lie 
Beneath  the  brow  of  this  fair  hill, 
Where  runs  the  ever  gushing  rill 
As  softly  as  an  angel's  sigh  ; 
Here,  where  the  Poet's  dust  is  laid, 
M'Donald,*  Bard,  of  noblest  heart — 
Where  sleeps  the  spotless  Indian  maid, 
Dohummee,  child,  unschooled  in  art — 
Here  by  the  Lake  of  Sylvan  water, 
Where  music,  griefs  serenest  daughter, 
Her  harp  has  on  the  willow  hung ; 
With  them,  O  let  me  sleep  fore'er, 
Where  every  leaf  shall  drop  a  tear, 
When  comes  the  night  with  half  veiled  eye, 
And  glimmerings  from  the  far  off' sky, 
Like  weepers,  to  the  earth  have  sprung. 

Here  would  I  sleep,  beside  the  wave, 
Here  have  my  low  and  nameless  grave, 
Unmarked  by  aught  but  earliest  flowers ; 
My  mourners  be  the  willow  leaves, 
The  wind  that  ever  seeming  grieves 

*  M'Donald  Clarke. 

5* 


62  POEMS. 

Among  the  folds  of  summer  bowers, 

My  spirit  song,  the  voice  of  birds, 

The  brook-fall  murmuring  mystic  words, 

O  thus  in  calm  sweet  dream  away, 

My  heart  beneath  the  turf  should  lay, 

While  time  with  tread  of  future  years, 

But  strews  its  flowers,  and  friends  their  tears, 

Upon  my  Greenwood  couch  of  rest, 

Where  angel  feet  are  softly  prest, 

No  living  one  so  blest  as  me, 

Who  sleeps  thus  sound  and  pleasantly. 


M  &  IF  ©  L  I  ©  M  • 

A  star  is  rising  from  yon  isle,* 
That  melts  not  in  the  morning's  smile. 
But  sparkles,  far  away,  alone  ; 
A  glorious  star,  whose  zenith  throne 
Shall  dazzle  yet  the  gazer's  eye, 
Who  looks  upon  the  midnight  sky 
Where  rest  the  warrior  lights  of  time  ; 
For  'mid  that  throng,  and  proudly  o'er, 
To  height  unknown,  ungained  before, 

*  Corsica. 


POEMS.  63 

Shall  he,  a  victor,  rise  sublime, 
And  flash  his  beams  on  every  clime. 

Its  birth  has  not  been  rocked  in  blood, 
The  Isle  whereon  the  cottage  stood, 

O  * 

Which  gave  it  forth  to  thrill  the  world, 
But  echoes  up  the  sound  of  bells, 
Hath  flocks  in  all  its  quiet  dells, 
And  answers  to  the  ocean's  swells 
With  neither  trump,  or  cannon's  tongue  ; 
No  flag  is  from  its  rocks  unfurled 
To  flap  the  warrior's  awful  dirge, 
But  round  its  limes  the  vine  has  clung, 
The  olive  tree  beside  it  sprung, 
With  many  a  fearless  peasant  heart  ; 
And  every  morn  the  sun's  soft  glance, 
Hath  seen  the  gay  and  festive  dance 
Amid  those  sweet  and  glorious  bowers, 
Where  lingering  love  might  woo  the  hours, 
And  feel  the  triumph  of  her  art ; 
While  every  eve  has  only  blest 
The  honest  toiler's  hour  of  rest, 
And  flung  its  moonbeams  on  the  turf, 
Where  neither  lord,  nor  vassal  serf, 
Have  made  their  low,  or  lofty  bed — 
The  same  fair  couch  for  all  is  spread, 
Who  from  that  Isle,  but  yester-night, 


64  POEMS. 

Did  dream  would  spring  such  dazzling  light, 

As  that  which  now  gleams  overhead  ? 

Yet  it  hath  risen  !    a  million  eyes 

Have  seen,  and  felt  it  upward  rise, 

At  first,  half  dimned  in  battle  haze, 

At  last,  a  wild,  and  fearful  blaze, 

Athwart  the  heavens  in  splendor  shot ! 

A  nation's  shout  has  hailed  it  first, 

The  shells  of  many  empires  burst, 

Are  now  the  witness  of  its  stride, 

While  trembling  tyrants,  far  and  wide, 

Upon  the  thrones  their  slaves  have  wrought, 

With  quivering  lips  have  hailed  their  lord, 

Have  bowed  them  to  the  conqueror's  sword  ; 

While  fortress  columns  shook  ajar, 

And  crumbled  by  the  touch  of  war, 

As  shoots  that  star  to  glory  on, 

Proclaim,  'tis  thee,  Napoleon  ! 

As  yet  a  boy,  at  Toulon's  gate, 

He  bides  the  thunder  of  the  fray, 

And  half  unknown,  has  hurled  away 

The  fiery  clouds  of  stormy  fate  ; 

As  yet  a  boy,  his  hand  hath  held 

The  gleaming  sword,  and  back  expelled 

The  foes  of  France,  and  nobly  won 

The  trophy  wreath  which  crowns  the  brave, 


POEMS.  65 

Which  o'er  no  Barras'  brow  shall  wave, 
Who  saw  the  deed  of  glory  done. 
The  haughtiest  hearts  may  tremble  back, 
The  lion's  feet  are  on  their  track, 
A  few  rough  strides,  the  goal  is  past, 
Aye,  e'en  beyond  the  boasted  goal, 
Where  rests  full  many  a  victor's  soul, 
The  star  that  gleams  to-day,  is  cast ; 
Where  it  shall  wheel  its  time,  in  space, 
And  find  no  power  to  bar  its  race, 
'Till  it  hath  wrought  a  diieful  night, 
Wherein  to  veil  its  splendid  light, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  of  its  throne, 
Expire,  and  sink  to  rest  alone  ! 

Huzza,  O  France  !  the  star  is  thine, 
And  in  thy  firmament  shall  shine 
The  wonder  of  the  nation's  round  ; 
The  rubicon  is  far  behind, 
Trail  captive  banners  on  the  wind, 
And  kings  in  chains  ignobly  bound 
Are  conquered  in  this  day  of  days  ; 
The  heroes  shrink  in  wild  amaze 
And  tremble  at  his  awful  nod, 
The  grown  up  child  of  Corsica, 
But  yester  morn  at  boyish  play, 
Even  now,  a  strange  wild  Genii  god. 


6G  POEMS. 

Whose  breath  shall  over  realms  be  blown 
Arid  leave  them  only  wastes  of  dead, 
Whose  hands  upon  the  crumbling  throne 
Shall  press,  and  hide  like  age's  tread, 
The  very  wreck  of  pomp  and  power, 
The  sport  of  his  unpitying  hour. 

A  garland  for  the  conquerer's  brow, 

Hail,  France,  thy  glorious  victor  son  ! 

Toss  up  your  caps,  ye  dense  wierd  throngs, 

Burst  forth  a  million  triumph  songs, 

He  comes,  he  comes,  Napoleon  ! 

The  nation  shouts  "  vive  1'Empereur  !" 

What  tyrant's  neck  to  day  is  sure, 

What  hope  of  monarchy  secure  f 

O  Danton,  Danton,  look  to  thine ! 

And  Robespierre,  canst  thou  divine 

'Mid  all  these  chaplets  in  the  air, 

A  single  rose  to  deck  thy  hair  ? 

Nay  !  e'er  to-morrow's  sun  has  set, 

Thy  blood,  the  guillotine  shall  wet, 

And  France  shall  for  a  day  be  free, 

Unloosed,  Napoleon,  by  thee  ! 

By  thee,  the  star  from  lonely  isle, 

Which  rose,  and  gleamed,  and  shook  the  while, 

Then  sank  behind  the  chastened  world, 

On  which  its  lightnings  had  been  hurled  ! 


POEMS.  67 

Ha,  France  !  art  dazzled  ?  it  is  well, 
What  wildest  dream  of  wizard  spell 
Hath  seen  so  strange  a  time  ? 
Wreath  after  wreath,  field  after  field, 
The  mistress  of  the  world  must  yield, 
And  Italy,  and  Spain,  arid  all 
The  nations  heed  thy  trumpet  call, 
And  bow  obsequious  to  the  dust, 
As  bow  they  may,  for  bow  they  must ! 
They  cannot  stem  thy  battle  flood, 
When  fields  like  Austerlitz  with  blood 
Are  half  baptized,  and  left  as  graves, 
Wherein  they  sleep,  as  foes,  or  slaves  ! 
They  might  as  well  defy  the  deep, 
And  strive  before  the  tides  that  leap 
With  foaming  feet  upon  the  shore, 
And  shake  the  firm  earth  with  their  roar. 

A  crown  upon  the  conqueror's  brow  ! 
A  consul,  king,  and  hero  now, 
To  whom  the  brave  have  mutely  bow'd  : 
The  Alps  are  passed,  his  banners  wide, 
Have  Russ,  and  Turk,  and  Pruss  defied, 
Arid  given  them  many  a  gory  shroud ; 
Count,  Wagram's  guests,  and  Jena's  dead,] 
And  where  Aubokir  felt  his  tread, 
O  dig  beneath  the  matted  sand 


68  POEMS. 

Where  Egypt's  spires  of  marble  stand, 
Scrape  all  those  sculls  in  one  huge  pile, 
And  rinse  them  with  the  passing  Nile — 
Can  all  the  legions  of  the  Czar 
Withstand  this  fiercely  flaming  star, 
Withstand  this  genius,  God  of  war  ? 
Nay,  let  the  Swiss  with  single  hand, 
Before  the  avalanches  stand, 
That  leap  from  Jura's  misty  brow  ; 
As  he,  like  chaff  must  shrink  and  bow, 
So  shall  the  Russ,  and  Turk,  and  Don, 
Kneel  down  to  thee,  Napoleon  ! 

Earth's  hierarch  has  even  knelt, 

The  backs  of  kings  and  popes  have  felt 

Alike,  the  rod  and  lash  of  fate  ; 

Lo,  France,  to-day  is  strangely  great ! 

She  stoops  a  conqueror  'neath  the  skies, 

Around  her  triumph  arches  rise, 

And  spoils  are  trailing  at  her  car 

From  palaces,  and  lands  afar, 

All  won  beneath  thy  touch  and  word, 

While  fame  hangs  dazzling  from  thy  swoid ; 

Thou  prodigy  in  human  form, 

Thou  awful  spirit  of  a  storm, 

Whose  passing,  like  the  fire  steed's  heel, 

Made  empires  on  their  bases  reel, 


POEMS. 


69 

And  cast  above  the  spoil  of  thrones, 
A  harvest  field  of  bleaching  bones  ! 

The  goals  of  fabled  time  are  passed, 

And  louder  sweeps  the  triumph  blast 

Than  fiercest  age  has  heard  before  ; 

In  France,  the  star  hath  flamed  to-day, 

To-morrow,  far  in  blood  away 

It  lights  the  Russian  hills  of  snow, 

On  Neva's  ice  has  dared  to  throw 

A  mingled  look  of  hate  and  scorn  ; 

Flee,  Cossack  !  or  thy  beard  is  lost, 

Flee,  Ural's  mountains  far  across, 
And  hide  thee,  or  be  rudely  shorn ! 
No  eye  can  keep  the  meteor's  path, 
So  changeful  are  its  strides  of  wrath, 
That  lands  to-day  in  dreamy  rest, 
Ere  eve  shall  by  its  fire  be  prest, 
And  he  who  wore  this  morn  a  crown, 
Shall  bow  ere  night  in  suppliance  down  ; 
While  he  who  sat  in  dust  unknown, 
Shall  rise  astride  the  ancient  throne, 
A  sport,  Napoleon,  to  thee, 
Whose  touch  and  glance  is  destiny. 

Yet  thou  must  wane  ;  the  star  shall  set, 
Though  empires  wrapt  in  flame  attend ; 


70  POEMS, 

Though  blazing  cities  are  the  torch 

That  lights  him  to  the  midnight  porch, 

Where  he  must  into  darkness  blend  ; 

The  throe,  the  awful  throe  is  nigh, 

For  Moscow  glares  upon  the  sky, 

And  on  the  face  of  winter  grim  ; 

While  Kremlin  sees  that  star  grow  dim 

Before  the  fearful,  paling  light ; 

An  Atlas  sinewed  frost  hath  flung 

Its  chains,  his  bannered  host  among, 

And  down  descends  the  omen'd  night. 

Thy  ashes,  Moscow,  aie  a  knell, 

The  warrior  hears  its  warning  swell, 

And  back  toward  France,  through  seas  of  gore, 

Returns  to  gleam  in  wrath  once  more. 

But,  hush  !  why  France  in  mourning  bowed  ? 

Her  star  has  passed  behind  a  cloud, 

With  gathered  strength  to  rise  and  spring 

Like  Phoenix  from  its  ashy  tomb, 

And  further  up  the  sky  illume, 

Where  yesterday  it  wildly  blazed, 

While  all  the  world  looked  on  amazed  ! 

Can  prison  isle  retain  the  soul 

Which  spurned  the  nation's  battle  goal  ? 

Can  France  be  widowed  in  her  prime, 

Nor  breathe  a  voice  upon  the  blast — 


POEMS.  71 

Can  she  forget  the  glorious  past, 
Her  proudest  triumph  hour  of  time  ? 
Nay !  all  the  tongues  she  hath  are  blent, 
And  madly  to  the  exile  sent, 
They  bid  him  rise  and  gleam  again, 
They  point  him  to  the  fields  of  slain, 
Where  Europe  cringed  before  his  tread  ; 
He  lists,  he  comes  !     O  France,  'tis  thine  ! 
Arise,  and  be  to  glory  led. 

Huzza  !  away  from  prison  isle, 

He  treads  once  more  the  soil  of  France, 

What  hosts  of  sabres  catch  the  glance 

The  fiery  sun  hath  flung  to  steel, 

And  on  before  his  awful  smile 

Of  warrior  scorn,  the  nations  reel ! 

Rise,  Europe  !  where' s  thy  manhood  now  ? 

Rise,  or  in  dust  a  vassal  bow ! 

She  bows,  while  on  from  throne  to  throne, 

The  giant  treads  her  fields  alone. 

Alone  !  for  what  is  battle  plumed, 

And  what  the  flame  and  smoke  of  death, 

That  hisses  from  the  cannons  breath  ; 

The  tramp  of  legions  to  the  fray 

Beside  the  star,  which  leads  the  way, 

Whose  blaze  hath  every  land  illumed  ? 


72  POEMS. 

Aye,  from  thy  prison  isle  arise, 

Shall  Moscow's  ruin  hide  the  star, 

Or  Elba's  princely  fetters  mar 

The  flame  that  kindled  in  the  skies  ? 

Nay  !  Europe,  come  with  strength  allied, 

Your  hosts  to-day  hath  France  defied, 

And  challenged  thee  to  strife  of  blood  ; 

Roll  on  your  mixed  and  motley  flood, 

The  field  of  Waterloo  is  won, 

Or  sinks  to  rest  Napoleon  ! 

Upon  that  day  the  fates  are  hung, 

The  ranks  of  death,  to  death  have  sprung, 

Eye  gleams  to  eye,  and  steel  to  steel, 

The  armies  rock,  and  faint,  and  reel, 

The  victory  yet  suspended  high  ; 

The  star  falls  back,  a  Prussian  cloud 

Has  like  a  storm  of  vengeance  bowed, 

Fresh  on  the  conquering  arms  of  France, 

They  quiver  like  a  sunset  glance, 

The  die  is  lost,  the  hosts  have  won, 

Thy  star  is  set,  Napoleon  ! 

France,  wail  aloud  !  thy  glory  son 
Shall  gleam  on  high  for  thee  no  more, 
Eclipsed  upon  that  field  of  gore 
By  others  than  a  Wellington, 
His  star  has  gone  in  splendor  down  t 


POEMS. 

Nor  soon  shall  earth  forget  its  stride, 

Or  cure  her  chafed  and  humbled  pride, 

And  every  tyrant  on  his  crown 

Shall  henceforth  look  with  less  of  trust, 

Since  he  has  trampled  them  to  dust ; 

And  France — the  fame  he  wrought  for  thee, 

Shall  prouder  far  than  columns  be 

Upreared  by  hands  of  cringing  slaves, 

And  over  war  and  tumult's  waves, 

Mid  all  the  deeds  of  battle  done, 

Thy  star  shall  be,  Napoleon  ! 

He  sleeps  upon  the  lonely  isle, 
Not  Corsica  or  Elbe  to-day, 
But  in  the  ocean  far  away, 
Where  southern  suns  in  brightness  smile, 
He  sleeps,  the  terror  of  the  world  ; 
Like  some  fierce  spirit  downward  hurled, 
To  rest  its  awful  work  awhile. 
Helena's  rock,  the  grave  of  graves, 
Shall  hold  his  dust  within  her  bars, 
Until  some  kindred  earthquake  jars, 
And  bids  his  wrathful  soul  arise  ! 
A  fitting  place — the  winds  and  waves, 
The  thunder,  and  the  rocking  surge 
Shall  blend,  and  sing  the  warriors  dirge, 
And  lightnings  flashing  from  the  skies 
6* 


74  FDEMS. 

Shall  stoop  above  their  brother's  rest, 
While  feet  from  every  land  are  prest 
Around  the  couch  of  glory's  son, 
The  Star  of  France,  Napoleon  ! 


IF  n  ©  m  i  T 


No  jagged  rock  above  the  .ZEgean  sea, 
Where  the  unmufRed  winds  their  thunder  drums 
Beat  to  the  surge,  when  its  upheaving  comes 
To  sing  its  paean  to  the  midnight  cloud  ; 
Where  lightnings  on  their  fiery  \vings  descend, 
Like  spirits  from  some  hidden  flame-world,  proud, 
To  scathe  the  oak,  that  only  trysting  tree 
Where  meet  the  tempest  furies  of  the  night, 
And  wed  their  horrors  by  the  dim  star-light, 
O'er  many  a  wreck  that  lies  upon  the  strand 
Washed  by  the  surf,  which  tinges  with  green  mould 
The  skeletons  of  navies,  in  the  sand ; 
And  far  adown  in  the  dark  slimy  waves, 
Where  ocean  monsters  shiver  in  their  caves, 
Buried  full  deep  in  their  unburthened  graves, 
Laughing  with  icy  touch,  the  winter's  cold ! 


POEMS.  75 

Not  there  lies  our  Prometheus,  all  lone, 
With  his  scarred  back  upon  the  pointed  stone  ; 
And  face  turned  ever  to  the  warring  sky, 
So  when  to-morrow  noon  shall  come,  and  gaze 
Upon  his  agony,  with  burning  blaze, 
Its  flame  shall  kindle  in  his  lidless  eye ; 
And  the  red  bolts  that  sometimes  hurtle  by, 
Upon  those  tortured  balls,  their  keenness  trace, 
Rending  the  muscles  of  that  quivering  face 
With  awful  pain  !  While  in  his  matted  hair 
The  scorpions  have  twined,  and  made  their  lair  ; 
And  slimed  the  very  palace  of  the  soul : 
And  vultures  at  his  vital's  set  their  goal, 
Where  with  their  beaks  they  lacerate  the  heart, 
And  strive  to  tear  the  life  and  flesh  apart ; 
While  he,  the  chained  of  ages  cannot  turn, 
But  lives,  and  feels  the  hells  that  ever  burn, 
Forcing  the  sweat  of  blood  from  pallid  lips  ; 
No  cooling  dew,  such  as  the  grey  rock  sips, 
Descending  on  his  brow  from  evening  skies, 
But  there  in  torment  with  himself  he  lies, 
A  living  death,  so  spurned,  he  never  dies  ! 

Not  on  Caucasus,  on  no  fabled  rock, 
The  sport  of  vengeful  gods,  who  fiend-like,  mock 
The  victims  of  their  strength,  who  lie  so  low, 
Hugging  the  chains  of  their  unsated  woe, 


76  POEMS. 

Is  our  Prometheus  !     A  child  upgrown, 
Inured  to  pain,  and  toil,  and  piercing  grief; 
The  ice  of  winter,  and  the  summer's  fire, 
The  desert's  famine,  and  the  simoon's  breath, 
Disease,  and  crime,  and  misery,  and  death  ; 
And  all  within,  around  the  vital  throne 
A  sea  of  tortuous  lust,  and  fierce  desire, 
Wrought  by  himself,  and  fanned  into  a  flame, 
Before  whose  light  the  spirit  demons  sit, 
Whose  robes  are  woven  of  the  aspen  leaf; 
Langour  and  thirst,  and  sadness  and  despair, 
And  hate,  and  scorn,  and  frenzy  with  wild  air, 
And  murder  streaming  forth  her  crimson  hair, 
An  awful  progeny  !  whose  spectres  flit 
By  the  soul's  temple  door  all  night, 
Rattling  their  fetters  in  the  sickly  light. 

Aye  !  there  is  he,  upon  a  jagged  mount, 
The  fearful  rock  of  bis  own  nursing  lust ; 
Below  him  is  a  sea,  a  dark,  deep  sea, 
Lifting  its  waves  in  awful  majesty, 
Passions  that  never  rest,  nor  tire,  nor  die, 
Till  in  the  dimness  of  eternity 
They  turn  upon  themselves,  and  sate,  and  sleep, 
Upon  his  heart  are  chains  that  bear  the  rust 
Of  these  six  thousand  years  ;   the  rust  is  deep, 
But  stronger  is  the  chain  of  gorgon  fold, 


•  POEMS.  77 

Mocking  the  foot-prints  of  the  ages  mould. 
Above  him  is  the  burning  sky,  where  thirst, 
By  Lazaar  winds  into  a  fever  nurst, 
Glares  down  upon  his  swoln  and  lidless  eye, 
Parching  his  soul  with  its  intensity  ! 
And  all  around,  no  spring,  no  dripping  fount 
To  bathe  his  fingers,  and  his  beating  brow, 
That  rages  ever  with  hot  fires,  as  now. 

There  lies,  Prometheus,  by  a  Titan  hugged 
On  a  bare  rock,  to  bide  the  pelting  storm  ; 
A  piteous  slave,  whose  veins  with  heat  are  drugg'd, 
A  human  soul,  confined  in  cringing  form, 
To  limp,  and  groan  within  its  prison  place, 
And  by  the  fearful  workings  of  its  face, 
Its  own  humanity,  almost  forswear  ! 
Each  day,  and  hour,  there  hovers  in  the  air 
The  dark  plumed  vulture,  waiting  for  his  prey  ; 
Prometheus  !  thou  may'st  shudder,  far  away, 
Listen  the  spirits  who  have  bound  thee  fast, 
They  leave  thee  to  the  sun's  ray,  and  the  blast, 
To  the  fierce  beating  of  the  tempest's  wring, 
And  the  eternal  gnawing,  which  shall  cling 
Long  as  thou  bearest  on  thy  limbs  a  chain, 
Gorging  thy  spirit  with  the  pangs  of  pain. 

Jove  cannot  loose  thee,  nor  undo  the  bond 
Of  agony  which  binds  thee  to  the  rock  ; 


78  POEMS: 

A  law,  unalterable  as  his  own  fate, 
To  which  all  things  created  shall  respond, 
Bespeaks  an  endless  punishment — lest  thou, 
With  desperate  strength,  for  the  occasion  great, 
Resolve  within  thyself,  and  from  thy  brow 
Hurl  back  the  Titan,  and  undo  the  chain 
Wrought  for  thyself,  by  thy  own  will  supreme, 
And  to  the  sea  of  passion,  speak,  be  still ! 
Resolve  thyself  to  this,  and  thou  shalt  be 
From  rock,  and  tempest,  and  the  vulture,  free  ; 
And  never  more  shall  the  dark  sky  to  thee 
Mutter  with  fearful  wrath,  and  downward  fling 
Lightning  and  hail,  upon  relentless  wing, 
Gnawing  thy  spirit  with  unceasing  ill ; 
But  over  thee  a  calm,  like  sweetest  dream 
Steal  soft,  and  heal  the  anguish  of  those  wounds, 
Against  whose  bars,  the  soul  despairing  bounds 
Like  a  caged  beast,  within  a  rough  cell  strong, 
To  madness,  goaded  by  its  keeper's  thong  I 

Arise,  Prometheus  !   arise,  my  tortured  soul, 

So  pictured  in  that  form  of  agony, 

Which  heaves  its  breast  above  the  JEgean  sea 

Upon  the  rock  Caucasian  ;  where  uproll 

The  waves  around  its  couch,  with  shrieking  tones, 

To  drown  the  music  of  its  awful  groans  : 

Arise,  unbind  thyself  of  chains,  be  free  ! 

Forget  thy  lust,  and  on  those  cheeks,  where  years 


POfcMS.  70 

Before  and  since  the  flood,  have  furrowed  deep, 
And  ever  furrow,  channels  for  thy  tears, 
Shall  bloom  another  beauty — up,  arise ! 
No  demons  hinder  in  the  clouded  skies, 
Nor  monsters  who  in  weedy  caverns  sit, 
Breathing  their  mildew  spells  upon  the  earth, 
Cursing  full  many  of  our  human  birth — 
Thou  hast  the  strength  to  rise,  the  will,  the  will ! 
Or  thou  must  struggle  in  thy  prison  still, 
And  pray  on  hopelessly,  and  ever  feel 
Deeper  within  thy  heart,  the  rusting  steel. 

Thou  wilt  not  free  thyself?  then  groan,  and  lie, 
And  catch  the  drippings  of  the  hail  and  flame ; 
The  slime  of  earth,  the  torment  of  the  sky, 
Worse  than  a  thousand  deaths — and  never  die  ! 
No  gods  have  power  to  free  thee,  thou  may'st  cry 
Forever  and  forever,  none  hut  those 
Who  rise  with  will,  and  smite  their  Titan  foes, 
Escape  the  awful  punishment — but  they, 
Hurling  their  bonds  like  smoking  flax  away, 
Laugh  at  the  vulture,  and  the  forked  fire, 
Which  wait  their  victim  at  the  funeral  pyre, 
And  find  him  not !     Slaves,  none  but  slaves 
Bend  to  such  lash,  and  clasp  their  undug  graves ; 
Aye,  none  but  slaves  !    Art  thou  a  slave,  my  soul  ? 
Then  howl  upon  the  rock  !     If  not,  arise, 


g0  POEMS. 

And  spurn  the  fetters  of  that  torture  goal, 
And  thunder  to  the  furies  of  the  skies, 
"  Ho  !  I  am  he,  whom  ye  so  long  have  pained, 
From  Caucasus,  Prometheus  is  unchained!" 


Kl  ©  B  Q  ©  ©  M  .* 


Lake  of  the  north  !  thy  spell  hath  bound 
My  weary  heart  from  day  to  day  ; 
And  many  a  thought  of  thee  has  found, 
And  guiled  my  soul  in  dream  away — 
The  wave's  wild  dash,  the  ripple's  play, 
Ah,  these,  as  seen  in  hours  gone  by, 
Flash  on  my  memory's  wistful  eye, 
And  lead  me  back  with  joy  to  thee, 
The  clear,  the  beautiful,  and  free  ! 

Can  absence  hide  the  sparkling  spring 
Our  lip  has  touched  in  olden  days, 
Or  mar  the  greenleafed  vines  that  cling 
Around  the  rock  like  wreaths  of  bays, 
On  which  our  eyes  were  wont  to  rest  ? 

*  Lake  George. 


POEMS. 

Can  distance  mar  the  face  of  friends, 

The  fanes  their  feet  with  ours  have  prest — 

Can  all  that  melts  and  sweetly  blends 

Our  perished  life  in  one  dear  dream, 

Be  lost,  nor  more  to  memory  gleam  ? 

Then  lake  of  beauty  be  forgot  ! 

But  if  the  dream  with  us  remain, 

If  memory  lives  our  life  again, 

To  me  a  fond,  and  holiest  spot, 

Be  thou  of  dark  but  glorious  brow  ; 

The  loved,  the  dreamed,  the  treasured  now, 

As  when  in  years  gone  by,  my  feet, 

With  rapture,  trod  thy  hallowed  shore, 

And  felt  the  foam  clad  waves  upbeat, 

With  might  and  music  in  their  roar. 

Ah,  beauteous  lake  !  to  thee,  alone, 
Are  given  the  white  and  pearly  sands, 
With  many  a  green  robed  island  throne 
Where  wave  the  pines  their  leafy  hands  ; 
*•  To  thee,  leap  down,  the  crested  nils, 
The  gushing  of  those  glorious  hills 
Whose  tear-drops  to  thy  breast  are  flung  ; 
And  wild  the  strain  each  breeze  hath  sung 
Through  oak-tree  boughs,  that  stoutly  brave, 
From  homes  of  rock,  the  breathing  cloud, 
And  proudly  up  with  heads  unbowed 
7 


82  POEMS. 

Nod  gently  to  the  hymning  wave  ; 
O  yes,  to  thee,  is  all  the  spell 
Which  woo's  away  such  heart  as  mine, 
And  bids  me  back  in  dream  to  dwell 
Within  those  island  grots  of  thine. 

Sweet  lake,  what  memories  cling  to  thee 

Who  bore  the  Indian's  light  canoe, 

Ere  peeped  the  golden  sun-beams  through 

The  tangled  boughs  on  harvest  field  ; 

How  glorious  in  that  day,  when  free 

To  guide  their  barques  upon  thy  blue, 

And  laughing  waves,  or  moor  them  fast 

In  coves  away  from  storm  and  blast, 

The  men  of  red  and  swarthy  face, 

That  noblest,  curst,  and  blasted  race, 

Were  lords  of  thee,  and  of  the  shore  ; 

How  on  those  isles  arose  the  fane, 

What  haughtier  lips  than  here  remain 

Grew  mute  before  the  unveiled  storm, 

Or  quivered  'neath  the  lightning's  form 

Which  from  the  darkling  cloud  hung  o'er — 

What  loftier  brows  were  here  amid 

These  rocks,  where  towered  the  oak  and  pine  ; 

What  songs  arose  from  hearth,  and  shrine, 

And  dells  that  day  in  darkness  hid, 

In  awful  mood  to  Him,  who  came 


POEMS.  83 

In  tempest's  breath,  and  tempest's  flame, 
And  bid  the  billows  rise,  or  lie 
In  calm  beneath  the  placid  sky. 

Ah,  never  more  shall  day  return, 
Or  race  like  that  my  verse  hath  sung, 
The  hand  of  fate,  and  battle  stern, 
Their  dirge  to  thee,  and  thine  have  rung ; 
Hence  o'er  their  ashes  low  and  cold, 
A  bloodier  age  its  robes  shall  fold. 
The  barque  upon  the  beach  has  rotted, 
The  wigwam  mouldered  where  it  stood, 
Before  the  peasant's  axe,  the  wood 
Its  beauteous  brow  has  bent  toeaith, 
And  silence  crowns  the  fane  and  hearth, 
And  hills  and  vales,  with  hunters  dotted, 
Are  robed  in  mourning  weeds  to-day  ; 
The  wind's  wild  music  and  the  spray, 
Are  chaunting  in  our  ears  most  solemn 
Dirge,  and  farewell  rite  to  them ; 
Sleepers  with  no  word  or  column 
Save  the  tearful  cloud,  and  thunder, 
Who  to  rock  and  torrent  under 
Wail  their  lasting  iequiem  ! 

Yet  unto  thee  a  spell  remains, 

Though  on  thy  shore  are  carnage  stains, 


84  POEMS. 

And  fortress  walls  in  ruin  lying 
Where  evening  winds  are  ever  sighing, 
For  freedom  still  belongs  to  thee — 
Ay,  on  yon  sloping  lawn*  I've  prest 
The  turf  o'er  many  a  couch  of  rest, 
Where  sleep  our  warrior  fathers  brave  ; 
And  down  beneath  the  chilly  wave 
Their  white  bones  glisten  in  the  sand, 
Where  nought  but  tin  of  trout  hath  been  ; 
Or  yonder,  in  the  mountain's  gravel, 
Where  only  feet  of  wild  beasts  travel, 
They  bleach  and  moulder  in  the  sun  ; 
The  brave  and  glorious  battle  men, 
By  whom  our  liberty  was  won. 
Yet,  what  are  fields  of  harvest  land, 
Where  gleam  the  reapers  sickles  bright, 
Though  waving  wheat  a  golden  light 
Flings  up  to  meet  the  summer's  ray, 
When  ope's  the  purple  curtained  day, 
To  woods  that  crowned  the  mountain  side, 
Or  rose  majestic  in  their  pride, 
And  shook  o'er  every  glen  and  vale, 
Their  scented  blossoms  to  the  gale  ? 
And  what  our  freedom,  which  the  strong 
Have  only  wrested  from  the  weak, 
Our  rights  built  up  of  hate  and  wrong, 
*  Fort  Wm.  Henry. 


POEMS. 

Too  shameless  for  my  tongue  to  speak — 
With  theirs,  who  lived  these  crags  among, 
In  island  bowers  their  matin  sung, 
Marred  neither  rock,  nor  leaf,  nor  tree, 
And  spurning  every  bond  were  free  ? 

Ah,  give  me  back  the  olden  day, 
When  Horicon  tossed  up  her  spray, 
And  kissed  the  forest  leaves,  that  hung 
Like  lips  of  angels,  pure  and  young, 
With  many  a  rose  which  stooped  to  lave 
Its  blushing  face  in  beauty's  wave. 
O  give  me  back  the  rapturous  time 
When  thou  wert  clear  as  seraph's  eye, 
And  blue,  and  bright  as  yonder  sky, 
Whose  stars  are  mirrored  here  this  eve  ; 
Ere  stain  of  blood  was  given  to  thee, 
Or  crosiered  priests  from  eastern  clime 
Bore  off  thy  waves  beyond  the  sea  : 
Restore  the  leaf,  and  rock,  and  spring, 
The  festal  song,  the  wild  whoop's  ring, 
The  deer-foot's  distant  echoing — 
Bid  o'er  the  waters  deep  and  blue, 
Return  and  glide  the  light  canoe, 
While  'round  the  wigwam's  blazing  fire, 
The  Indian  girl  reclines  to  weave 
A  garland  for  her  lover's  brow  ; 
7* 


POEMS. 

And  brave,  and  chief,  in  hunt  or  fray, 
Are  in  the  wild  wood  far  away, 
Like  mountain  eagles  on  the  wing, 
And  I  could  ever  bide  with  thee, 
The  clear,  the  beautiful,  the  free  ! 


Parent  of  good  !  who  bid'st  the  sun  arise, 

And  drink  the  fragrance  of  the  morning  dew ; 

Who  givest  the  earth,  of  blossom,  and  the  breeze, 

Thou  who  hast  filled  the  universe  with  love, 

And  made  it  beautiful  for  human  feet ; 

O,  Father,  Friend,  Protector,  sovereign  God, 

Accept  my  worship  in  this  solemn  eve  ! 

The  day  has  gone  to  take  its  wonted  sleep, 

Yet  lingering  on  the  hill-tops  of  the  east, 

The  sun's  last  glances  fading  into  night, 

Proclaim  the  hour  of  fevered  toil  is  o'er. 

O'er  all  the  earth,  how  still,  how  wondrous  still, 

How  hushed  the  beating  of  life's  noisy  heart — 

List !  in  the  distance  echo  dies  away, 

And  the  last  sound  of  mirth  and  revelry, 


POEMS.  g>7 

Like  the  low  murmuring  of  the  midnight  wind, 

Steals  in  half  mournfully  upon  the  ear. 

Here,  from  the  world,  the  drunken,  drowsy  world, 

Lone  watchers,  with  Endymion  we  come, 

To  sit  us  down  beneath  the  solemn  stars, 

And  weave  our  worship  in  an  evening  hymn  ! 

O  beautiful,  most  beautiful,  are  all  things  here  create ; 
The  earth  that  hath  such  round  and  goodly  shape, 
The  fair  green  earth,  whose  mountains  kiss  the  skies, 
And  shake  their  cloudy  incense  into  heaven — 
The  earth,  within  whose  arms,  these  dim  old  woods, 
Which  axe  of  mortal  never  yet  hath  touched, 
Bend  to  the  passing  of  the  summer  wind, 
And  with  their  tongues,  uncounted  as  the  sands 
That  feel  the  beating  of  the  wrathful  surge, 
Send  up  a  song  of  everlasting  praise. 
How  beautiful  is  yonder  deep,  yon  deep, 
Nor  line,  nor  plummet  ever  fathomed  yet, 
Whose  waves  that  break  around  our  city's  shores, 
Like  some  strange  anthem  from  a  fabled  land, 
Have  rolled,  and  tossed,  and  flung  their  leafy  spray, 
Through  ages,  mouldered  on  the  page  of  time  ! 
The  wondrous  deep,  whose  tide  that  booms  this  eve 
Upon  yon  fortress,  and  yon  rocky  cliff, 
Has  lashed  the  walls  of  empires  now  in  dust, 
And  still  majestic,  and  untired,  sweeps  on, 


88  POEMS. 

To  sing  in  time,  ere  yonder  stars  have  set, 
The  wane  of  many  monarchy's  so  fresh  to  day, 
And  chaunt,  perhaps,  Columbia's  funeral  dirge. 

Yet  not  less  fair,  O  mother  of  these  streams, 
That  from  the  mountain  leap  into  the  vale, 
And  kiss  the  meadows,  and  the  willow  leaves, 
Which  bend  for  baptism  in  the  spotless  wave — 
Yet  not  less  fair,  O  mother  of  these  mists, 
That  lift  themselves  at  evening,  and  descend 
In  drops  innumerable  upon  the  grass, 
And  on  the  faces  of  these  mute  young  flowers, 
Which  shall  to-morrow  open  their  dumb  lips, 
And  thank  their  maker  with  a  song  of  praise. 
O  beautiful  is  all  the  world  !     The  universe, 
Which  sprang  to  life  when  sang  the  morning  stars. 
So  lovely  then,  so  glorious,  and  sublime, 
Though  men  and  nations  crumble  into  dust, 
Bears  not  a  mark  of  change  upon  its  brow. 
The  moon  that  sitteth  queenly  in  the  sky, 
Her  azure  mantle  folded  on  her  breast ; 
The  pale,  sweet,  blue-eyed  moon,  whose  gaze  hath 

been 

So  shy,  yet  lapturous  on  the  ocean's  face, 
So  true  these  many  thousand  years,  (while  man 
Has  only  loved  an  hour,)  yet  fair  and  tender, 
As  when  first  she  threw  her  silver  lustre 


POEMS.  89 

On  the  fickle  wave,  rides  on  ;  and  the  gay  stars, 
Undimned  by  age  or  storm,  still  flash  afar, 
Proud,  lofty,  and  serene  as  on  that  morn, 
When  first  their  jewelled  feet,  began  with  music 
The  great  march  of  time. 

To-night,  O  God, 

My  worship  let  me  bring  ;  let  me  unloose 
The  garner  of  my  soul,  and  on  the  air, 
Which  has  a  thousand  tongues,  as  to  some 
Trusty  messenger,  breathe  out  the  incense 
I  have  kept  for  heaven  !     O,  there  are  altars 
In  all  human  hearts,  in  every  field,  and  every 
Forest  depth,  shrines  which  no  hands  have  built, 
Where  far  away,  beyond  the  rocky  hills, 
The  Indian  pauses,  weary  from  his  chase, 
And  kneeling  on  the  mossy  lap  of  earth, 
With  sounds  of  brook-falls  murmuring  in  his  ear, 
Looks  fondly  upward  from  his  couch  of  flowers, 
Through  the  green  branches  of  the  giant  trees, 
And  to  the  sun,  and  to  the  passing  cloud, 
His  maker's  heralds  in  the  summer  sky, 
Makes  low  obeisance  !  And  blessed  are  such  fanes, 
And  holy  too,  such  noon-day  sacrifice. 
And  there  are  shrines,  and  temples  built  with  hands, 
Where,  regular  as  Memnon's  statue  woke, 
And  breathed  its  music  to  the  purple  dawn, 


90  POEMS. 

Come  up  the  stated  worshippers  of  time, 

To  dip  their  fingers  in  the  font  of  life, 

And  bend  their  knees  in  attitude  of  prayer  ! 

Aye,  lofty  temples,  and  magnificent ; 

Whose  spires  have  gleamed  amid  the  warring  storm, 

And  braved  the  ravages  of  centuries. 

Aye,  altars  cushioned  with  the  crimson  cloths, 

Borne  from  far  lands,  and  sprinkled  o'er  with  spice ; 

Too  fair,  too  pure,  too  costly  for  the  touch 

Of  common  lips,  and  lowly  feet  profane  ! 

There  worship  the  great  nabobs  of  the  earth, 
The  laced,  and  powdered,  and  perfumed  of  time  ! 
'Tis  well,  but  neither  temple  with  its  gleaming  spire, 
Nor  noon-day  sacrifice  in  yonder  wood, 
Has  aught  so  solemn  as  this  evening  hoar, 
No  worship,  like  the  worship  offered  here. 
O,  hence  !  hence  !  hence  !  poor  noisy  world, 
I  have  a  conference  with  the  King  of  Kings  ! 
'Tis  fit,  'tis  meet,  the  scene,  the  hour,  my  soul — 
The  day  lies  fevered  on  its  dreamy  bed, 
Poor  day  of  dust,  and  misery,  and  death  ; 
Its  flaming  lamp  is  quenched  by  nature's  hand, 
And  lo,  around  me  comes  the  curtained  night, 
Majestically  marshalled  by  the  stars  ! 
Hush  !  be  not  rude,  the  angels  hover  near, 
And  wait  our  evening  sacrifice.     We  come, 


POEMS.  01 

Lord,  God,  Almighty,  listen  to  oar  song ! 
The  winds  are  silent,  and  the  leaves,  and  yonder 
Stream  upon  whose  crystal  wave,  the  ships  of 
Commerce  flap  their  wings,  and  ocean  with  its  tides, 
And  surges  which  at  morn,  rose  up  like  mountains 
Bellowing  to  the  sky,  all  lulled  to  silentness, 
And  sleep. 

Above  me,  like  an  army,  pass 
The  clouds,  waving  their  misty  banners  on 
The  air  ;  beneath  me  earth,  like  a  young 
Angel's  bride,  has  closer  prest  the  violets 
To  her  bosom,  while  the  grass,  and  sweet  young 

flowers, 

Voluptuously  smiling  with  their  crimson  lips 
As  died  the  last  gay  sun-beam  in  the  west, 
With  tearful  eyes  have  sung  their  twilight  hymn. 
O,  Father,  let  me  be  most  reverent  at  this  hour, 
While  on  my  ear,  the  murmuring  ocean  breaks, 
With  music  lofty  as  infinitude  ; 
While  yonder  stars  go  trailing  through  the  sky, 
And  Dian  stooping  from  her  azure  throne, 
Kneels  in  the  shadowy  temple  of  the  night, 
And  veils  her  brow  with  loveliness  serene  ; 
O,  let  me  not  beneath  their  holy  calm, 
Me,  dust  and  ashes  of  this  ruder  world, 
Forget  my  worship,  and  my  evening  hymn  ! 


92  POEMS. 

Forget,  forget !  the  very  air  is  rife 

With  wings,  and  tongues,  and  songs  most  eloquent ; 

The  slightest  leaf  or  bud  on  yonder  bough, 

Has  turned  to  heaven,  its  mute  adoring  face, 

And  through  its  dew  drops,  whispered  to  the  wind 

Its  speechless  aspirations  !  O,  let  me 

Not  forget,  while  these  dumb  lips,  the  shadows 

Of  thy  presence,  hover  near,  that  I,  a  soul, 

Sublimer  than  the  stars,  than  aught  of  passing, 

Perishable  make,  have  thought,  and  tongue, 

And  speech  to  weave  thy  praise. 

Low,  to  the  dust, 

I  bend  my  sweated  brow,  how  cool,  how 
Glorious  comes  the  evening  wind  ;  calm  is 
The  throbbing  of  my  fevered  pulse,  the  earth 
Retreating  fades  beneath  my  feet,  while  angel 
Shapes,  with  music  not  of  time,  bear  my  rapt 
Spirit  to  its  native  land  !     Thrice  happy  hour, 
How  poor,  and  mean,  the  trappings  of  low  life, 
How  utter  worthless  all  its  golden  dreams, 
The  scum,  the  fever,  and  the  dross  of  time  ; 
How,  like  a  phantom  on  the  winter  blast, 
A  hollow  sound,  and  echo,  long,  long  lost, 
Pass  in  review  the  wrecks  of  many  years, 
The  days  of  dust,  and  heart  consuming  toil, 
Before  the  glory  of  this  silent  eve ! 


POEMS.  93 

O,  who  of  ye,  poor  pleasure  cankered  throng, 
Would  give  this  moment,  and  a  fresh,  free  soul, 
For  all  the  pageant  of  a  thousand  years  ? 
O,  who  would  change  a  heart  unseared  with  crime, 
A  fragrant  couch  amid  these  hymning  flowers, 
Beneath  the  heaven  and  its  uncounted  stars, 
With  winds  and  waves,  as  our  conversant  friends, 
For  the  dread  burthen  of  an  aching  soul, 
With  thrones  of  monarchies  to  stool  our   feet, 
And  an  eternity  of  summer  suns  ? 

O,  why  is  there  such  misery  in  this  world  ? 
This  matchless,  glorious  world,  which  might  be 
Eden,  if  the  hand  of  man,  forsook  not 
Nature  for  unholy  war,  whose  crimsori'd  sword, 
Ambition,  pride,  and  lust,  have  steeped  and 
Feasted  upon  human  gore  !     Why  need 
To-morrow's  sun,  arise  above  an  earth 
Of  wretchedness  and  wo  ?     Its  fairest  gardens 
Turned  to  pools  of  blood,  its  brightest  beauty 
Scarred  by  cannon  flame  !     O,  why  must  these 
Green  fields,  bear  thistles  and  sharp  thorns, 
And  famine,  pestilence,  and  death,  three  headless 
Monsters  ever  in  our  midst,  make  e'en  the 
Fane,  their  reckless  slaughter  place  ? 
Can'st  tell  me  this,  O  sage  philosopher — 
Or  thou,  great  oracle — Or  gifted  bard  f 
8 


£4  POEMS. 

Can'st  tell  me  why,  with  these  unbounded  fields* 

As  yet  untrodden  by  the  loot  of  man, 

Fields  only  waiting  for  the  pilgrim's  axe, 

To  change  their  waste,  and  blossom  with  the  rose, 

We  may  not  have  our  paradise  of  flowers, 

And  be  the  god-like  our  first  parents  were  ? 

Within  thy  bosom,  lies  the  curse,  O,  man  ! 
Above  the  early  worship  of  thy  race, 
Pale  fiends  have  reared  their  altars  on  the  heart* 
What  is  the  story  of  thy  wants  to-day  ? 
A  peaceful  cottage  in  the  orange  grove, 
A  mountain  pasture  for  thy  happy  flocks, 
A  shrine  within  some  unpolluted  bower, 
Where  only  zephyrs,  and  the  rippling  spring, 
Companions  glorious  of  the  loving  soul, 
Might  bear  thee  witness  to  the  ear  of  Cod  .? 
Say,  are  thy  wants  prescribed  by  yonder  valey 
Can'st  thou  amid  its  ever  springing  grass, 
Amid  the  foliage  of  the  spicy  trees, 
With  all  of  beauty  that  the  world  hath  seen> 
And  all  that  panders  to  the  human  taste, 
Kneel  down  beside  the  blue-eyed  violet, 
Which  only  asks  the  sunshine,  and  the  dew, 
And  say  beneath  the  twinkling  of  the  stars, 
O  God,  my  Father,  I  am  fully  blest  ? 
Nay  !  like  a  lie  'twould  curdle  on  thy  lips, 
The  heart  is  not  with  plenty  satisfied — 


POEMS.  95 

What  need'st  thou  more  than  this  unrivalled  light 
Which  streams  at  noon-day  on  the  speaking  earth, 
The  shadowy  evening  with  its  golden  dreams, 
And  all  this  plenty  bursting  at  thy  feet  ? 
It  were  enough,  with  an  unspotted  soul, 
To  make  thee  loftier  than  the  proudest  king. 
But,  nay  !  within  the  temple  of  thy  heart, 
Another  altar  than  the  living  God's, 
Another  shrine  than  this  green  budding  earth, 
Is  reared,  and  asks  the  spirit's  sacrifice ! 

Who  says  "  Lord,  God,  I  worship  only  Thee, 
Thee,  and  this  wondrous  universe  of  Thine?" 
There  may  be  some  beyond  the  western  hills, 
Or  'mong  the  ice-bergs  of  the  furthest  north, 
Where  civilization  has  not  yet  defiled, 
And  steeped  the  lips  of  worship  men  with  crime  : 
Some  free  born  souls,  as  they  were  born,  yet  free  ! 
Who  asks  no  more  than  blossoms  in  this  world, 
And  yield  their  homage  for  so  great  a  gift. 
I  see  the  fane,  where  throng  our  million  feet 
To  offer  blasphemy  instead  of  prayer : 
Not  in  some  charmed,  and  Genii  haunted  vale, 
Where,  as  the  evening  gathers  on  its  robes, 
Strange  voices  break  in  murmurs  on  our  ear, 
Like  angels  lisping  to  their  fallen  kin 
With  words  of  peace — 


96  POEMS. 

Nay  !  in  thy  breast,  O  passion-fevered  man, 
Has  last,  and  pride,  and  low  rebelling  hate, 
Built  up  a  shrine.     Upon  it,  sits  a  god, 
A  demon-god,  beneath  whose  iron  tread, 
The  flowers  of  life  are  blighted  into  thorns, 
And  all  the  joys,  and  glories  of  the  heart, 
Turn  back  to  sting,  and  wither  in  the  soul. 
No  new  strange  idol  chosen  for  to-day, 
But  one  installed  and  crowned  by  eldest  time, 
When  past  antiquity  was  but  a  child. 

That  god,  is  name  !  for  whose  embrace, 
Friend  Milton's  devil,  challenged  the  Supreme, 
And  fell  from  heaven  to  the  infernal  world. 
Nor  he  alone  !  from  Adam's  day  to  ours, 
This  mighty  throng  of  which  we  are  but  sands, 
These  seven  hundred  million  living  souls, 
Have  offered  up  their  worship  at  its  feet, 
Exhume  the  kings  who  sleep  in  pyramids, 
The  haughty  conquerers  of  forgotten  times, 
And  ask  their  ashes  sifted  by  the  winds, 
To  whom  they  gave  their  homage  in  this  world  ? 
Like  thunder  loosened  from  the  rotten  cloud, 
Or  voice  of  surges  breaking  on  the  shore, 
Bursts  from  the  dust  which  lies  beneath  our  feetj 
Name,  only  name  !     For  this,  Sesostris  wrote 
Upon  his  trophy  pillars  in  the  east, 


POEMS.  97 

"  Behold  the  king  of  kings,  and  lord  of  lords  !" 
For  this,  beyond  the  Indus,  Alexander  went, 
The  spoils  of  nations  trailing  at  his  heels  ; 
So  when  the  earth  had  yielded  to  his  arms, 
Arid  he  had  dug  the  graves  of  all  her  kings, 
Like  some  fierce  gorgon  gloating  o'er  his  spoil, 
He  might  sit  down  and  weep  at  slaughter's  goal! 

Great  God  !  are  not  thy  temples  built  by  love, 
And  all  thy  altars  consecrate  to  peace  ? 
But  what  are  these,  the  crimson  battle  fields, 
Where  warrior  men  have  been  baptised  in  gore — 
These  columns  frowning  over  fortress  walls, 
Upon  whose  sides  are  glory  deeds  inscribed  ? 
Are  these  the  feet  of  loving  worshippers, 
These  Vandals  thundering  at  the  gates  of  Rome  ? 
Is  this  her  penance,  mistress  of  the  world, 
To  lead  her  legions  to  the  Xerxes  throne, 
Or  o'er  the  Adriatic,  to  unfurl 
The  standard  of  a  thousand  victories  ! 
And  thou  mad  Timur-Lame,  who  gloried  once 
In  caging  monarchs  captive  at  thy  feet, 
Did'st  thou  not  worship  at  the  altar  name  ? 
Let  kings  and  Caesars  sleep  !   they  will  not  bear 
Such  fearful  witness  to  their  deeds  of  blood  ! 
Call  up  the  bones  of  armies,  and  of  slaves, 
That  bleach  from  China  to  Pacific's  shores, 
8* 


gg  POEMS. 

The  many  hundred  millions  who  have  bowed 
And  made  to  kings  their  obsequies  in  dust ; 
Ask  them,  the  sleepers  in  Tartar  sands, 
Or  those  who  lie  beneath  the  Persian  turf, 
Or  on  the  festered  fields  of  Italy — 
Go  ask  the  valley's  where  the  Cortez  passed 
And  left  but  blackness  and  a  ruin  sear, 
Where  lie  the  Montezumas,  and  their  kin  ; 
Or  if  ye  like,  to  these  red  fertile  spots, 
Aubokir,  Austerlitz,  and  Wateiloo ! 
What  word  have  ye,  pale  clanking  hosts  of  slain, 
To  whom,  gave  up  your  master's  homage  here  ? 

Hark  !  like  a  fire-storm  rending  the  still  earth, 

Or  tramp  of  old  volcanoes  roused  to  life, 

From  every  hill,  and  every  vale  they  come, 

More  than  the  eye  a  thousand  times  can  see, 

So  awful  still,  so  grim,  and  terrible  ! 

Above  them  wave  their  banners,  thick  as  leaves 

Unseared  by  autumn  in  an  orange  grove, 

But  hush'd,  the  trump,  the  war  horse  neigh,  the  drum, 

The  shout  which  rang  above  the  clash  of  helms, 

As  on,  from  north,  south,  east,  and  west  they  tread, 

Their  arms  reversed,  while  from  their  bony  eyes, 

As  memory  wakes  the  hour  the}7  grappled  death, 

And  bears  the  wail  of  homes  left  desolate, 

Shoot  tears  of  flame  !  These  are  thy  victims,  war ! 


POEMS.  99 

These,  waiting  for  the  summons  of  the  judgment-day, 
With  all  their  sins  and  scars  upon  their  heads, 
O  lust,  and  pride,  are  your  great  sacrifice  ; 
These,  are  the  offerings  at  thy  altar,  name  ! 
What  wonder  then,  that  there  is  wo  and  want, 
When  war's  red  trophies  crown  our  harvest  fields, 
And  names  of  heroes  fill  the  peasant's  song  ? 
What  wonder,  when  thy  altars,  God,  are  scorned, 
And  earth,  made  glorious  for  a  worship  place, 
With  love,  and  peace,  are  changed  for  bitter  hate, 
And  all  our  offerings  sacrificed  to  name  ? 

Poor,  low,  mean  name  !   pray  what  is  it  ? 

A  few  brief  letters  on  yon  gilded  sign, 

Letters,  an  age  may  change,  or  rot  away, 

For  which  we  toiled  our  life  time  to  engrave  ! 

But  the  beginning  of  an  epitaph, 

Which,  when  the  death  cart  rumbles  on  its  round, 

And  strangers  wrap  our  corpses  in  their  shrouds, 

And  hang  above  us  the  black  loathsome  pall, 

Shall,  by  some  executor  of  our  will, 

Some  friend,  perhaps,  be  taken  from  the  board 

And  chiselled  on  our  marble  for  a  day. 

Ho  !  ye  wild  bristling  crowds,  with  swiftest  feet, 

Rush  to  your  altars,  and  your  hearths  ; 

Into  the  closets,  where  your  idols  lie, 

Mind  not  the  stars,  nor  golden  clouds,  nor  earth, 


100  POEMS. 

Nor  aught  of  joy  or  plenty  in  the  world  ; 

But  hug  your  gold  ere  it  shall  turn  to  dross, 

Hug  all  your  titles,  and  estates,  and  names, 

Aye  !  do  it  e'er  to-morrow's  sun  shall  rise, 

For  then,  aye,  then!  a  craped  and  mocking  crowd, 

Doing  but  shabby  reverence  to  thy  dust, 

Shall  bear  thee  to  the  churchyard,  let  thee  down, 

And  as  the  turf  thumps  on  thy  coffin  lid, 

Scattering  their  precious  tears  upon  thy  grave, 

Shall  turn  and  leave  thee  to  oblivion, 

Till  stirred  by  sexton's  shovel,  or  the  trump. 

How  vain  and  impotent  such  worship,  man  ! 

How  weak  the  titles  that  like  useless  weeds 

Hang  to  the  rotten  mantle  of  renown ; 

The  Nelson  pillars,  and  the  Caesar  shrines — 

How  cursed  the  glancing  of  that  awful  star, 

That  bloody  meteor  in  the  sky  of  time, 

Which  flashed  athwart  the  nations,  'til  they  shook, 

And  heaved  their  fiery  vomit  on  the  world. 

Ye  may  not  measure  it  ye  human  fiends, 

Till  crowding  to  the  muster  of  the  last  great  day, 

Rise  up  the  armies  of  the  earth  and  sea, 

Mailed,  bannered  as  they  fell,  more  than  the  earth 

An  hundred  times  can  hold  ! 

Then,  when  around  the  pyramids, 

The  slaves  who  built  them  for  tyrannic  kings, 


POEMS.  101 

Millions  on  millions,  thronging  in  their  chains, 
Gather  with  hollow  clanking  to  their  place — 
When  they  who  followed  heroes  to  the  field, 
A  host  innumerous  as  the  ocean  sands, 
Tramp  in  firm  phalanx  to  the  last  review — 
When  priests,  and  bards,  and  orators  of  fame, 
With  laurel  crisped  upon  their  pallid  brows, 
Stand  trembling,  speechless,  at  their  Maker's  throne, 
With  nothing  in  their  hands  but  withered  leaves, 
Then !  may  ye  reckon  how  much  worth  was  name. 

But  we  must  cease !  O,  God,  as  Thou  art  just, 
Be  merciful  to  man  in  the  last  day. 
Ye  fellow  pilgrims  in  this  march  of  life, 
Come  from  the  stormy  battle  of  the  world, 
The  path  of  conflict,  and  the  gory  field  ; 
Come  out  of  Sodom,  e'er  the  avenging  fires 
Of  famine,  pestilence,  and  crime,  rain  down 
Their  molten  lava  on  unsheltered  heads  ! 
The  earth  is  wide,  the  earth  is  green  and  fair, 
A  noble  dwelling-place,  a  noble  fane — 
What  need  we  more,  if  with  good  hearts  we  turn 
Each  to  his  field,  and  clip  our  harvests  down  ; 
If  war's  red  emblems  are  forgotten  left 
To  rot  beside  the  trophies  she  has  reared  ? 
There  need  not  pine  a  single  human  soul, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  golden  west 


102  POEMS. 

Lie  endless  fields  which  court  the  toiler's  feet ; 
Fields  wasting  fragrance  on  the  summer  wind. 

O  let  us  rise  with  stouter  hearts  to-day, 

Leave  these  dark  cities  full  of  pestilence, 

And  in  the  valleys,  on  the  mountain  side, 

Build  up  our  cottage  in  some  spicy  shade  ; 

Where  to  the  music  of  the  leaping  spring, 

The  song  of  birds,  and  the  gay  blush  of  flowers, 

Oar  souls  may  worship  and  be  full  of  joy. 

All  else  is  lost !  the  day  shall  come  and  go, 

The  bright-eyed  stars  perform  their  endless  march, 

While  thrones  and  empires  crumbling  to  the  dust, 

With  all  their  rude  old  monuments  defaced, 

Leave  not  an  echo  for  the  ear  of  time. 

Of  what  avail  in  yon  long  waste  of  years 

Marred  to  my  vision  through  succeeding  age, 

Will  be  our  toil,  and  sacrifice  to  name  ? 

Of  wrhat  avail,  when  generations  tread 

The  turf  that  lies  above  our  rotted  bones, 

And  make  their  merriment  around  our  graves — 

When  other  times  less  foolish  than  our  own, 

Shall  wonder  we  but  lived,  to  write  our  epitaph  ? 

O  let  us  turn,  nor  longer  spurn  the  earth, 

Our  eldest  mother,  in  whose  bounteous  lap 

Lie  all  things  needed  by  the  heart  of  man! 

Let  us  so  mould  the  pilgrimage  of  life, 


POEMS.  108 

That  when  the  sun  has  journeyed  his  last  round, 
When  earth  grown  weary  of  her  ancient  course, 
Flies  to  her  couch  in  chaos  whence  she  came  ; 
And  God  his  candles  blotting  from  the  sky, 
Leaves  time  to  take  its  everlasting  veil, 
We  may  from  our  long  sleeping  night  arise, 
To  taste  the  splendor  of  a  better  morn, 
And  weave  above  the  passing  twilight  shades 
Our  endless  hymn ! 


There's  sadness  by  Cow-Hick-ee'sf  hearth, 
The  brave*  has  lost  his  heart  of  mirth, 
The  lip  that  quivered  not,  nor  paled, 
And  e'en  the  black  and  flashing  eye, 
Changed  by  the  touch  of  destiny, 
Are  notes  of  grief-— and  words  of  wail 
That  rise  on  every  forest  gale, 
Proclaim  how  deep  the  wo  is  felt, 
How  stern  and  sure  the  blow  was  dealt ! 

*  One  who  holds  converse  with  the  Great-Spirit,    t  An  Iowa  Chief, 


POEMS. 

Why  does  he  wail,  Cow-Hick-ee,  brave  ? 
Is  not  his  home  amid  the  wood, 
Where  there  is  neither  bond,  nor  slave — 
Where,  free  as  yonder  oaks  that  wave 
Above  the  storm  clad  mountain's  brow, 
His  soul  may  mock  the  winds  that  bow 
The  fearful  pale  face  to  the  dust  ? 
Cow-bick-ee's  fane  is  by  the  rock, 
Which  bides  and  bears  the  tempest's  shock, 
An  altar  piled  with  leaves,  and  rude, 
As  far  in  forest  solitude 
Our  primal  genii  builds  his  throne  ; 
There,  when  the  twilight  waves  her  pall, 
When  birds  their  mates  to  shelter  call, 
By  sound  of  murmuring  waterfall, 
Cow-Hick-ee,  glides  to  prayer  alone. 

His  wigwam  rests  in  yonder  glen, 
Where  pale-face's  foot  hath  seldom  been, 
The  tender  trees  which  form  the  grove, 
Are  bent,  with  branches  interwove, 
Rough  bark  the  sides  and  top  protect, 
And  on  the  earth,  its  simple  floor, 
The  autumn  leaves  with  moss  are  strown ; 
His  bow  hangs  close  above  the  door, 
The  quiver  by  its  side  is  prest, 
And  there  the  tomahawk  at  rest, 


POEMS.  1Q5 

Bids  friends  fear  not,  and  foes  beware  ! 
Nor  rouse  the  lion  from  his  lair, 
Whose  mood  is  gentle,  'till  hath  sprung 
The  foe  upon  him,  or  his  young. 

Why  then  thy  grief,  O,  Cow-hick-ee  ? 
The  wigwam  and  the  fane  are  free, 
And  thou  art  young,  and  fair,  and  brave  ; 
Where  far  Iowa's  forests  wave, 
A  lighter  foot  has  never  strayed 
In  chace,  or  romp  with  Indian  maid, 
Nor  stronger  arm  the  battle  blade 
In  war-path  bore,  to  taunt  the  foe  ; 
Nor  surer  arrow  sped  its  blow 
To  heart  of  him  who  came  for  wrong, 
Nor  freer  heart,  nor  bolder  tongue, 
The  welcome,  or  the  challenge  flung, 
Than  Cow-hick-ee's,  who  sits  alone 
Beside  his  hearth  or  altar  stone, 
And  to  the  murmuring  of  the  gale, 
Pours  forth  his  low  and  solemn  wail ! 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  my  bride  is  dead, 
And  far  beneath  the  pale-face'  tread 
She  lies  beside  the  ocean  shore,* 
To  bless  my  arms  and  hearth  no  more  !" 

*  In  Greenwood. 

9 


fOEMS. 

Well  doth  he  wail !   what  heart  is  still 
Thus  wrecked  with  grief,  and  lashed  with  ill- 
Mourns  not  the  bird  its  fallen  mate, 
Is  not  the  nest  left  desolate, 
When  one  hath  drooped  its  feeble  wing  ? 
Aye,  long  around  his  home  of  vines, 
He  sits  upon  the  tree  and  pines, 
And  knows  no  joy  till  in  the  skies, 
In  blissful  hour  the  lost  he  spies  ! 
Mourns  not  the  lion  in  his  lair, 
When  she,  who  bore  with  him  a  share 
Of  grief,  or  joy,  in  frolic  play, 
Is  snatched  by  death  from  him  away  ? 
How  wake  the  woods,  with  echoes  loud, 
The  monarch  of  the  forest,  bowed, 
Roars  for  his  mate  for  days  in  vain, 
Ere  he  returns  to  lair  again  ! 
So  Cow-bick-ee,  his  bride  bewails, 
His  spirit  sinks,  and  slo\vly  pales 
His  lip  and  brow,  before  so  free, 
For  her,  his  perished  Do-hum-mee  I 

Do-hum-mee*  was  Iowa's  pride, 
A  fairer  rose  hath  never  sprung 
The  forest  glens,  or  rocks  among, 

*  An  Indian  Princess. 


POEMS.  IQ7 

Than  she,  the  sweet  young  Indian  maid, 
Whose  childhood  in  the  wood  was  played, 
Where  bends  the  fern,  and  towers  the  pine, 
Dressed  in  its  robes  of  leaf  and  vine, 
By  many  a  murmuring  streamlet's  side- 
There,  far  away,  the  princess  grew, 
As  lovely  as  the  hare-bell  blue, 
Which  only  drinks  the  morning  dew, 
And  smiles  from  lise  to  set  of  sun  ; 
Like  silken  threads,  her  waving  hair 
Streamed  loose  upon  the  taintless  air, 
Her  deep  black  eye  shot  forth  a  flame 
With  power  the  strongest  heait  to  tame, 
And  make  it  vassal  at  her  will — 
Her  cheeks  were  fair  as  roses  blown 
Upon  some  mossy  hillock  thrown, 
And  when  she  smiled,  they  dimpled  o'er 
Like  sun-gilt  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
And  cast,  when  ruffled  by  the  breeze, 
A  sheen  upon  the  bending  tiees, 
Which  seem  to  stoop  with  ravished  gaze, 
As  on  the  shining  ripple  plays — 
Her  tread  was  light  as  frighted  deer's 
Whose  leap  o'er  chasm,  and  brushwood  clears, 
Who  snuffs  in  haste  the  mountain  gale, 
While  dog  and  hunter  wend  the  vale — 
Her  heart  was  warm,  and  pure,  and  free, 


108  POEMS. 

The  dwelling  of  simplicity, 
Where  every  want  might  come  and  make 
Its  prayer  for  love  and  virtue's  sake  ; 
And  none  were  turned  with  scorn  away 
Who  bent  before  her  shrine  to  pray — 
Her  voice  was  sweet,  and  deep,  and  shrill, 
The  hunter  felt  his  bosom  thrill 
Who  heard  her  song  at  morning  dawn, 
Ere  from  the  leaves  the  dew  was  gone, 
As  forth  a  gushing  hearted  child 
She  sang  amid  her  native  wild. 

Nan-nouce  Push-e-toe*  was  her  sire, 
A  noble  king,  whose  heart  of  fire 
Was  stout  as  is  the  mountain  oak, 
Which  bides  the  tempest's  fire  and  smoke, 
And  sits  upon  the  ancient  rock, 
Where  it  hath  felt  the  thunder  shock 
Of  years,  nor  quailed — so  sitteth  he, 
Nan-nouce  Push-e-toe,  strong  and  free  ! 
The  pale-face'  tread  he  heedeth  not, 
Whose  hand  the  torch  of  war  hath  brought* 
But  friendlier  soul  hath  never  held 
The  pipe  of  peace,  or  given  relief 
To  want,  than  he,  Iowa's  chief; 
Who  though  his  race  is  far  expelled 

*  The  buffalo  king. 


POEMS. 


From  pleasant  lands  they  held  of  yore, 
Bears  strangely  meek,  the  wrongs  they  bore  ! 

Dear  to  his  soul  was  Do-hum-mee, 
As  vine  hath  clung  to  forest  tree, 
So  clung  she  to  her  father's  side  ; 
So  grew  she  up  her  father's  pride, 
Iowa's  rose,  'til  Cow-hick-ee 
Had  won,  and  wed  her  as  his  bride  — 
Not  in  the  wood  the  knot  was  tied, 
But  far  amid  the  pale-face'  homes, 
Where  ocean's  tide  with  thunder  comes, 
'Mid  spires  and  turrets  shooting  high, 
In  clime,  where  beams  a  softer  sky, 
The  sire,  the  lover,  and  the  maid, 
To  see  their  ancient  lands  had  strayed  ; 
And  there  in  halls  by  strangers  reared, 
The  two  fond  hearts,  by  love  endeared 
And  knit  in  other  days,  were  bound  ! 
Do-hum-mee  was  no  more  a  child, 
No  more  an  Indian  maiden  wild, 
To  run  and  shout  the  loud  halloo, 
And  fearless  urge  the  light  canoe  — 
Cow-hick-ee  claimed  the  rose  his  own, 
He  plucked  it  from  the  monarch's  throne, 
The  chieftain  smiled,  and  freely  gave 
The  rose  he  cherished  to  the  Brave  I 
9* 


Q  POEMS. 

What  joy  belongs  to  Cow-bick-ee, 

"What  deep,  deep  bliss  to  Do-hum-mee  ; 

The  dream  is  full,  the  spell  is  deep, 

O  may  they  long  such  revel  keep, 

The  revel  of  ecstatic  souls, 

No  darkness  mars,  no  woe  controls. 

Ah,  who  halh  seen  a  pleasant  clay 

Turn  dark  at  noon,  and  pass  away, 

As  storm  and  whirlwind  hurtled  by — 

So  joy  hath  fled,  so  grief  is  nigh  ! 

A  few  short  days — the  rose  giew  pale, 

Its  leaves  were  blighted  by  the  gale, 

It  closed  its  lips,  and  bowed  its  head, 

Though  friends  were  watching  by  its  bed, 

And  trembling  on  its  stem,  it  died  ! 

Aye,  she,  Cow-hick-ee's  bride,  is  dead  ! 
Away  from  home  her  eye  grew  dim, 
A  beauteous  leaf  from  forest  limb, 
Blown  forth  to  wither  and  to  blight; 
How  deep  the  blow,  how  fierce  the  smart, 
Which  rankles  in  the  warrior's  heart ; 
The  light  of  day  has  closed  to  him, 
Do-hum-mee  was  his  morning  star, 
And  thus  to  loose  in  lands  afar 
Her  soft  sweet  glance,  unmans  his  soul 
With  grief  his  heart  may  not  control — 


POEMS. 

And  Naimouce  Push-e-toe  hath  wailed, 
The  rose  is  gone  he  loved  so  well, 
And  in  his  bosom  sounds  the  knell 
Of  man}7  a  joy  he  felt  before, 
Now  buried  by  the  ocean  shore  ; 
Where  they  have  laid  his  own  to  rest, 
And  o'er  her  spotless  ashes  pressed 
The  turf,  with  flowers  and  willows  veiled  ! 

Yet,  though  in  stranger  land  she  died, 
That  fond  fair  gill,  that  gentle  bride, 
Warm  hearts  were  by  her  couch  and  bier, 
And  weeping  eyes  gave  up  the  tear 
Of  pity  deep,  and  love  sincere — 
Ah,  there  was  one,  a  pale-face  good, 
Who  loves  the  red-race  of  the  wood  ; 
A  woman,  with  a  noble  heart, 
Who  watched  the  fading  rose  at  morn, 
And  fanned  its  leaves  at  noon  arid  eve ; 
Who  grieved  to  see  the  beauteous  grieve 
By  sickness  paled,  and  bowed,  and  worn — 
With  soul  o'er  full,  a  sister's  part 
To  that  fair  one  in  grief  she  bore, 
Knelt  by  her  side,  bent  fondly  o'er, 
And  prayed  most  deep  and  fervently, 
That  God  would  spare  her  Do-hum-mee  ! 


112  POEMS. 

Wa-con-tam*  was  the  pale-face'  name, 

A  woman  loved,  and  known  to  fame, 

With  auburn  hair  and  beaming  eyes, 

A  heart  of  purest  sympathies, 

An  open  hand,  when  suffering  came, 

Or  want's  low  wail,  or  sorrow's  cries ; 

A  soul  lit  up  by  strongest  flame 

Of  pity,  hope  and  love  supreme, 

A  woman,  such  as  in  our  dream 

Sometimes  on  angel  wings  descend, 

The  low  and  helpless  to  befriend  ! 

How  well  she  nursed  that  drooping  rose, 

From  day  to  day  she  soothed  its  woes, 

No  mother  o'er  her  child  hath  stood 

With  holier  love,  or  sadder  mood  ; 

No  sister  by  a  sister's  bed 

Bowed  down  with  deeper  grief  her  head, 

Than  she,  the  guardian  angel  sent 

To  pour  the  oil  of  balm,  and  close 

Those  eyes  which  flashed  their  forest  fire 

On  stranger  faces,  far  away, 

From  where  her  childhood's  hours  were  spent. 

That  bride,  with  sickness  lowly  bent 

To  pale,  and  quiver,  and  expire, 

Far,  far  from  pleasant  Iowa  ! 

*Given  to  Mrs.  C.  M.  Sawyer  by  the  Indians. 


POEMS. 

Wa-con-tam  watched  her  parting  breath, 
Stooped  o'er  her  body  chilled  by  death, 
And  robed  her  for  the  dreamless  rest ; 
And  saw  her  borne  with  many  a  wail 
To  Greenwood's  sweetest  sylvan  vale, 
Where  lies  the  fresh  turf  on  her  breast — 
A  beauteous  spot,  'mong  bending  trees, 
Where  softly  comes  the  murmuring  breeze, 
To  fan  the  leaves  and  flowers  that  wave 
Above  so  fair  and  fresh  a  grave. 
And  there,  a  woman's  love  has  reared 
The  speaking  marble  o'er  her  dust, 
To  wrhisper  of  the  sacred  trust 
Which  lies  below,  to  friends  endeared  ! 
There,  when  the  stranger's  eye  shall  trace 
Beside  the  silent  lake*  of  blue, 
A  monument,  upon  whose  side 
A  chiselled  form  hath  bowed  its  face, 
(Cow-hick-ee,  wailing  for  his  bride,) 
With  broken  bow,  and  quiver  flung 
Away  from  shoulder  where  it  hung, 
Remember  'twas  Wa-con-tam,  who, 
Above  Do-hum-mee's  couch  of  rest, 
Reared  up  the  marble  o'er  her  breast, 

*  Sylvan  Lake,  at  Greenwood. 


4  POEMS. 

Long  shall  the  pale-face'  love  be  kept 

A  talisman  in  woods  afar, 

And  when  the  brave  goes  forth  to  war, 

Or  to  the  chase,  Wa-con-tam-ee, 

His  spoil  for  danger's  hour  shall  be. 

Cow-hick-ee  loves  her  true  and  well, 

And  Nan-nouce  Push-e-toe  can  tell, 

What  gentle  woman,  to  his  child, 

Came  like  a  spirit,  in  that  day 

Which  bore  her  to  the  dust  away  ; 

And  brave  and  squaw  will  sing  her  name, 

And  teach  their  young  lo  speak  her  fame, 

Who,  often,  where  the  willows  wave, 

Stoops  down  beside  Do-hum-mee's  grave  ! 


E)B 


Measure  her  if  thou  canst !  that  wondrous  Isle, 
At  once  the  giant,  and  the  drone  of  earth  ; 
The  outer  side  of  Rome  when  she  was  power, 
Crimsoned  since  Caesar's  day  with  blood  ! 
The  apex  now  of  monarchy,  whose  smile 


POEMS.  115 

Lights  the  lone  mistress  of  the  olden  world, 

And  flings  on  many  a  venerable  pile 

(The  glory  and  the  pomp  of  ancient  birth,) 

The  lustre  of  her  proud  eclipse — while  far  unfurled 

Her  banners  wave  beyond  the  Indus ;  aye,  this  hour 

She  laughs  the  conquests  of  the  Greek  to  scorn, 

And  o'er  the  flags  of  many  nations,  torn, 

Offers  her  morning  sacrifice  to  war, 

With  her  drums  music  of  unceasing  roll; 

Lining  the  edges  of  the  earth  afar 

From  the  bleak  ice-hill,  to  the  southern  pole  ! 

The  history  of  the  world  shall  never  know 

A  stranger,  grander,  or  more  despot  land ; 

The  tyrant  of  the  tyrannous,  whose  hand 

Is  red  with  age's  gore,  whose  battle  blow 

Has  glanced  upon  the  head  of  every  state, 

Some  crushing  into  atoms- — some  made  slaves, 

And  left  henceforth  to  drag  their  heavy  chains 

Behind  her  triumph  car,  or  to  the  strains 

Of  her  steed's  steel  hoofs  fiercely  ringing, 

Kept  "Hail,  Britannia!"  round  her  orgies  singing; 

She  panoplied  the  while  with  smoke  and  slaughter, 

Victor  of  terra  firma — on  the  water, 

Boasting  herself  the  glory  and  the  queen; 

And  striding  forth  with  an  unaltered  mien,  * 

Until  an  off-cast  child  from  the  dim  west, 


116  POEMS. 

Struggled  and  tore  the  laurel  from  her  breast- — 
Aye  !  from  its  mother's  breast,  whose  iron  thong 
Sat  on  its  back  too  heavily;  since  then, less  strong, 
But  not  less  willing  to  beat  down,  and  press 
The  faltering  of  the  nations,  to  oppress, 
And  build  her  glory  on  the  wane  of  realms, 
The  visored  army  of  her  might  o'erwhelms  ! 

Most  liberal  of  speech,  as  tyrants  are, 
Who  aim  at  empire's  universal  sway ; 
Her  blood-red  hand  unlooses  bonds  to-day, 
Lifting  the  brows  of  a  down  trodden  race, 
Where  group  the  fertile  islands  of  the  sea ; 
To-morrow,  by  the  smell  of  battle,  we, 
The  rattling  of  her  iron  chains  may  trace 
In  the  far  Indian  clime,  whose  torrid  air 
Is  fevered  with  the  sulphurous  fumes  of  war! 
So  pushes  she  her  conquest — so  she  plays 
The  desperate  game  of  her  consummate  lust, 
And  on  the  nations  whom  she  tread s  to  dust, 
The  awful  tribute  of  her  vengeance  lays — 
Escape  it,  ye,  who  can  !     Escape  the  car 
Where  ride  her  Cesar's  o'er  the  fields  of  slain, 
Dragging  their  millions  in  the  victor  train. 

She  was  our  mother,  shall  the  child  be  still 
When  she  hath  sported  with  infanticide  ? 


POEMS.  j 

Nay,  let  me  speak  !  were  it  a  trumpet  shrill, 

This  voice  of  mine,  I'd  send  it  far  and  wide, 

To  taunt  the  progress  of  her  bloody  stride: 

America  is  free  !  the  young  and  fair, 

And  she  may  thank  her  own  true  warrior  steel, 

And  the  great  God  of  battles  !     England's  heel 

Would  fain  have  trampled  her  into  the  earth, 

And  o'er  her  ruin,  with  ferocious  mirth, 

Built  up  her  funeral  pyre,  and  laid 

The  freedom  of  the  quailing  world,  arrayed 

In  gory  robes,  upon  the  altar  low, 

And  burned  it  with  malicious  triumph  slow. 

The  stars  be  thanked  !  America  arose, 

And  caught  with  fearless  breast  the  murder  blow 

Flung  off  such  guilty  parentage,  and  made 

Herself  the  asylum  of  the  oppressed  ; 

The  light,  the  pomp,  the  glory  of  the  west, 

The  chosen  of  all  empires,  proudest,  best ; 

The  lion's  curber,  over  land  or  sea, 

The  home,  the  fane,  the  palace  of  the  free  ! 

Would  Ireland  were  so  fortunate  !  the  years 
Of  seven  long  centuries,  have  bound  her  fast 
Beneath  the  clutch  of  the  oppressor,  she, 
Yet  stoops  and  writhes  in  her  great  agony, 
And  calls  upon  her  fallen,  who  are  mute — 
And  veils  her  face  in  mourning,  while  her  tears 
10 


H8  POEMS. 

Moisten  the  grave  where  sleeps  the  mighty  past, 
Whose  seed  shall  yet  spring  foith  to  ripened  fruit, 
And  break,  I  pray,  the  chain  ;  whose  ring,  at  last, 
Will  be  her  Emmet's  epitaph  ! 

And  thou, 

Forger  of  chains  and  vassalage,  O  Isle  ! 
Ungird  thyself  of  armor,  or  gird  on  ; 
The  fearful  throw  which  thou  hast  played  the  while, 
Shall  from  thy  stained  and  lucky  grasp  be  won, 
And  o'er  thy  empire  will  be  triumph'd  tis  done  I 
England — within  thyself,  the  fires  are  now 
Kindled  to  flame  ;  and  groans,  and  cries 
Of  thy  own  tortured,  rising  to  the  skies, 
Call  loud  upon  the  living  God — who  will  chastise 
Thy  monstrous  villany,  and  heap  thy  guilt 
With  all  the  blood  which  thou  hast  ever  spilt, 
In  rivetting  those  chains  upon  thy  head  ; 
Aye,  e'en  to-morrow  shall  the  sword  of  fate 
Alter  the  spirit  of  thy  destiny,  from  great 
To  alow  bier,  with  pall  like  midnight  cloud  ; 
Where  from  the  temple  of  thy  empire  proud, 
The  gilded  head  of  royalty  unbowed 
Before,  shall  bow  !     They  will  not  long  be  slaves 
Who  bear  thy  banner,  and  thy  battle  steel ; 
They  will  not  cringe  beneath  a  master's  heel 
Who  guard  his  Augean  gates,  and  bring 


POEMS.  H9 

The  bread  for  which  they  starve,  to  fat  a  king 
And  his  ignoble  progeny — while  they, 
Whisper  with  pallid  lips,  or  mutely  pray 
Hopeless  of  succour — nay  !  they  will  arise 
Like  Britian's  heroes  of  the  ancient  day 
To  fling  the  trappings  of  the  throne  away, 
An  while  in  dust  the  iron  collar  rings, 
Reclaim  their  freedom  from  tyrannic  kings  ! 


IL  HILDA. 

Love  has  its  stages — OLD  PLAY. 


Who  will  picture  forth  my  Lelia, 
Lelm,  fairest  of  the  throng  ! 
Mary,  Sarah,  or  Amelia, 
All  the  Daphnean  groves  among  ; 
She,  the  gayest,  sweetest  blossom, 
Smiling  'neath  the  summer  skies, 
Glorious  lips,  and  swelling  bosom, 
Golden  hair,  and  sparkling  eyes, 
Softly  breathing  amorous  sighs  ; 
While  the  doves  around  are  cooing, 


120  POEMS. 

And  the  simple  lovers  wooing, 
Hold  the  moonbeams  in  surprise  ! 

Lovely,  dear,  enchanting  girl, 

Like  a  heavenly  goddess  straying ; 

Or  a  morning  sunbeam  playing 

In  our  fairy  temple's  portal — 

Bosom  like  two  hills  of  pearl, 

Seemly  fiom  their  prison  saying, 

"  Come,  my  youth,  with  me  a  Maying, 

Come  and  taste  of  love  immortal." 

Rose  of  Peri,  on  my  dreaming 

Like  the  gaze  of  Houri's  beaming, 

Leave  my  heart,  O  leave  my  heart ! 

Tempt  me  not  from  my  good  mother, 

I  have  sister,  I  have  brother, 

Must  I  from  the  cottage  part, 

Where  I  twined  the  wreath,  and  gave  it 

To  the  peasant  lassie  lowly  ? 

Shall  I  meet  the  charm,  and  brave  it, 

Or  the  garland  dash  away — 

Garland  which  her  fingers  holy 

Bound  upon  my  brow  one  day  ? 

O,  my  Lelia,  I  am  maddened, 
Love  like  thine  must  be  supreme  ; 


POEMS. 

How  the  captive  heart  is  gladdened 
When  such  eyes  upon  it  gleam, 
How  their  flashing  makes  me  quiver, 
As  the  light  wind  on  the  riv  er 
Ripples  up  the  sleeping  waves  ; 
How  the  spirit,  half  repining, 
Rises  'neath  their  glorious  spell, 
Now  no  more  in  dimness  shining, 
But  like  coral  in  the  caves 
Where  the  ocean  surges  swell, 
Flashing  back  thy  beauty's  brightness, 
With  a  song  of  joy  and  lightness  ; 
Ever  thus,  by  love  inspired, 
Ever  thus,  by  fondness  fired, 
O'er  our  dreams  and  fancies  poring, 
And  our  ideal  heart  adoring. 

Be  my  broken  vow  forgiven, 
Who  can  'scape  the  witching  charm  ? 
Have  not  all  the  gods  in  heaven, 
Smiles  of  love  unto  her  given, 
Who,  did  Mars  himself  disarm  ? 
O,  farewell,  thou  smiling  valley 
Where  I  gave  my  worship  first, 
Where  with  love  I  dared  to  dally, 
Dreaming  not  I  should  be  curst — 
Long  adieu,  old  hearth  and  altar, 
10* 


122  POEMS. 

Kindling  eyes  on  childhood  smiling, 

I  am  bound  with  love's  beguiling, 

Ah  !  I  almost,  almost  falter, 

For  my  elder  love  is  crying, 

Broken-hearted,  pale  and  dying, 

Smile,  O  Lelia,  smile  upon  me, 

Else  thy  backward  home  have  won  me  ! 


PART  II. 

Some,  say  she  is  Venus'  daughter, 
Some,  'tis  Venus,  self  disguised, 
Crystal  birth  from  crystal  water, 
Greatly  loved  by  Jove,  and  prized  ; 
Yet  hath  spurned  them  all  to  bless  me, 
Scorned  the  angels  to  caress  me, 
Happy,  happy,  happy  me  ! 
Let  me  now  my  bondage  sever, 
.1  will  live  on  smiles  forever, 
Loving  Lelia,  only  thee — 
Only  thee,  whose  waving  hair 
Streams  like  gold  thread  on  the  air, 
Scattering  round  its  living  sparkles 
When  the  day  of  dreaming  darkles, 
And  the  soft  eve's  footfall  hovers 
O'er  the  hearts  of  simpering  lovers ; 


POEMS.  123 

Lelia,  Lelia,  I  am  thine, 

Thou  my  spirit's  worship  shrine. 

Lo,  I'm  wed  to  dream  and  beauty, 
Can  the  charm  be  ever  lost, — 
Can  the  barque  to  wreck  be  tost, 
Bearing  us  above  the  surges  ? 
Shall  the  gale  that  onward  urges, 
Turn  to  tempest  and  to  storm — 
And  the  breath  of  kisses  warm 
Blight  us  with  its  summer  weather  ? 
Love  is  now  my  spirit's  duty, 
Firmly  bound  are  we  together, 
Bound  by  chains  that  tightly  hold  us, 
Bound  by  arms  that  closely  fold  us, 
Each  the  other's  bosom  pressing, 
Each  the  other's  lips  caressing, 
Like  two  furnaces  of  fire  ; 
Coal  enough  to  burn  below  them, 
Bellows'  breath  enough  to  blow  them, 
Flaming  purer,  shooting  higher  ; 
Every  tender  fibre  racking, 
Every  cord  of  passion  cracking, 
From  the  spirit's  inward  growth  ; 
Spirit,  warming,  guiding  both. 

Who  would  thought  it  with  the  setting 
Of  the  sun  at  yester  eve, 


124  POEMS. 

Such  a  strange,  new  love  begetting  ? 

Who,  when  Lelia  flitting  o'er  me, 

Had  I  bid  them  to  believe — 

Would  have  thought  me  so  false-hearted, 

Or  so  easy  to  be  parted 

From  the  cheeks  I  used  to  kiss, 

Dashing  down  the  cup  of  bliss 

I  had  been  with  rapture  tasting  ? 

Now,  to  death  and  paleness  wasting — 

Ha  !  I'd  laughed  it  as  a  vision 

Worthy  but  the  heart's  derision, 

Yet  too  true  the  sequel  proved  it, 

She  but  beck'd  my  heart  and  moved  it. 

Yet,  O,  who,  could  well  resist  her  ? 

Who  resist  the  beauty,  glowing 

Love  from  lips,  and  cheeks,  and  eyes  ; 

Like  a  radiant  seraph,  throwing 

Fetters  in  the  form  of  sighs  ! 

Lo,  the  graces  all  assist  her, 

She's  the  graces  youngest  sister, 

Archly  smiling,  fondly  eyeing, 

Up  the  spirit's  windows  prying, 

Peeping  in  upon  the  soul, 

Spelling  it  to  her  control — 

Ere  we  think,  the  passions  tender 

To  the  queen  of  hearts  surrender, 

And  the  matchless  Lelia  binds  us 


POEMS.  125 

Hand  and  foot  in  fairy  grove, 
Smiles  upon  us  from  above, 
And  when  light  of  morning  finds  us, 
We  are  captives  to  her  love. 

Would  that  I  could  live  forever, 
And  the  charm  to  me  remain  ; 
O,  that  cloudy  morning,  never 
Might  return  to  mar  again  ; 
Let  me  to  my  bosom  hold  her, 
Let  me  to  my  spirit  fold  her, 
Lelia,  Lelia,  thou  art  mine, 
Body,  soul,  and  all  divine  ! 
Beam  those  eyes  as  when  thou  won  me, 
Lay  that  heaving  bosom  on  me, 
Softly  round  me  incense  breathing, 
While  among  thy  curls  I'm  wreathing 
Roses  from  the  Paphian  bowers ! 
Let  us  wing  the  flying  hours, 
Wing  them  with  a  thousand  kisses, 
All  the  sweet,  delightful  blisses 

Lovers  know, 

Bid  them  go, 

While  our  spirits  intertwining, 
Are  on  rosy  beds  reclining. 


126  POEMS. 


PART  III. 

Flee  away  ye  clouds  of  sorrow, 
Burst  the  fetter,  burst  the  prison ! 
Fix  the  banquet  for  to-morrow, 
When  my  love  and  I  have  risen — 
From  the  purple  vintage  borrow 
Flagons  full  of  fatted  wine  ; 
Be  the  feast  with  mirth  attended, 
Smiles  and  wrinkles  gaily  blended, 
While  we  worship  love  divine. 
Love,  that  came  at  first  from  heaven, 
Love,  by  Jove  to  Venus  given, 
Love,  my  Lelia's  eyes  betraying 
'Neath  their  silken  lashes  playing. 
Matchless,  and  half  wanton  peepers, 
Like  two  sly  winged  harvest  reapers 
Clipping  all  the  hearts  around  them  ; 
Thousands  wail  the  day  she  bound  them, 
For  my  Lelia  was  too  cruel, 
Only  burned  them  up  for  fuel, 
Me,  alack,  'mong  all  reserving, 
Me  the  chosen  and  the  blest; 
Most  in  her  sweet  eyes  deserving, 
Woe  betide  the  luckless  rest ! 


POEMS.  1 27 

Lo,  the  nuptial  torch  is  blazing, 
Throngs  the  banquet  board  have  prest ; 
Fondly  on  the  bride  are  gazing 
Eyes  of  many  a  ravished  guest. 
Crush  the  grapes,  and  ply  the  glasses, 
Merry,  merry,  merry  be  ! 
While  to  all  the  goblet  passes, 
Leave  my  love  alone  to  me. 
Lelia,  thou  art  mine  forever, 
Goddess  o'er  the  captive  heart ; 
I  will  yield  thee  up,  O  never, 
Never  from  thy  presence  part ! 

I  have  left  the  lassie  ]owly, 

j ' 

Broke  the  love  she  gave  me  holy, 
I  am  thine,  and  mine  thou  art. 

O  what  new  delights  are  breaking ! 
Wild  the  tide  of  joy  I  feel ; 
Spring,  her  purple  mantle  shaking, 
Treads  upon  the  winter's  heel ; 
Lelia,  like  a  real  blossom, 
Brighter  smiles  to  summer  skies, 
While  her  fresh  and  spotless  bosom, 
Softer  than  the  blushing  cluster, 
Rhenish  grapes  of  skyey  lustre, 
Seems  to  throb  and  fondly  rise — 
Strangers  we  to  wo  and  anguish, 


POEMS. 

On  the  mossy  knoll  we  languish, 
Speaking  love  in  tender  looks  ; 
Taking  lessons  from  the  brooks, 
Which  to  find  their  ocean  mother 
Leap  with  gladness  to  each  other, 
And  with  waves  and  pebbles  blended, 
Journey  'til  their  course  is  ended. 

Love,  indeed  !  what  heart  can  banish, 
Who  can  wrest  its  chains  away  ? 
It  hath  tongues  to  speak  and  vanish 
Like  the  bubble  crested  spray  ; 
Hide  as  well  the  sunlight  o'er  us, 
Hide  as  well  the  air  before  us, 
Love  has  grown  to  be  our  spirit, 
Stronger  than  we  first  inherit — 
Being,  from  the  gods  descended, 
Unto  human  souls  appended, 
Human  souls  musr  ever  bear  it 
While  they  wander  here  below  ; 
Not  alone,  but  mix  and  share  it, 
And  in  sweet  communion  grow  ; 
Yet  like  me  let  few  forsake  her, 
Who  was  lowly  born  to  love, 
But  whose  gentle  heart  bespake  her 
Worthy  of  the  gods  above  ; 
Cling  unto  the  early  cherished, 
Ere  it  withers,  and  is  perished. 


POEMS.  129 


PART  IV. 

Beauteous  rose  upon  the  mountain 
Has  to  meet  the  sunbeam  sprung, 
As  beside  the  marble  fountain, 
Garden  groves,  and  shades  among ; 

Sweet  lipt  flowers 

In  rude  bowers, 

'Mong  the  crags,  and  in  the  valleys, 
Where  the  bee  and  hum-bird  rallies, 
As  in  court  of  king  palace, 
Persian  or  Italian  lands  ; 
Aye,  with  little  bowls  of  chalice, 
Fairest  violets  upspringing, 
Are  the  dews  of  morning  bringing 
From  the  glens  in  spotless  hands — 
Oft,  the  faint  and  weary  stranger 
Pausing  on  the  lone  hill  side, 
Modest  little  rose  hath  spied, 
Plucked  it  for  his  bosom's  keeping, 
Fond  companion,  waking,  sleeping, 
Free  from  blemish  and  from  stain — 
Lo !  our  Savior  in  a  manger 
Came  to  birth  upon  the  plain ; 
Scorn  ye  not  then  bud  nor  flower, 
11 


130  POEMS. 

Though  it  spring  in  forest  bower ; 

Showers  and  morning  light  are  given 

From  the  bounteous  lap  of  heaven, 

Unto  all  things  here  below ; 

Zephyrs  o'er  the  daisies  blow, 

Freshly,  as  upon  the  faces 

Of  the  lilies  in  the  grot; 

God  has  blest  the  humblest  places, 

Scattered  o'er  the  earth  His  graces 

Beautifying  every  spot — 

Crush  not  then  the  lowly  blossom, 

Fold  it  to  thy  faithful  bosom, 

Be  thou  like  the  One  above, 

Love,  and  never  change  thy  love. 

May  my  falseness  be  forgiven, 

Wayward  heart  is  this  of  mine  ', 

Yet  let  not  the  chains  be  riven 

Binding  me  to  Lelia's  shrine! 

For  the  die  is  past  returing, 

Though  a  stricken  heart  is  burning, 

Though  a  blighted  soul  is  yearning, 

I  am  pierced  with  shafts  divine. 

Other  eyes  than  ours  have  tightened, 

Other  lips  than  ours  have  sealed, 

Bonds,  which  time  but  smoothed  and  lightened 

Two  young  buds  to  Lelia  yield 

The  more  sacred  name  of  mother, 


POEMS.  131 

Cherub  twins  !  a  sister,  brother, 
Who  could  now  unloose  the  chain  f 
Who  the  gush  of  hearts  restrain, 
Who  turn  back  our  love  again, 
Who  the  link  that  wed  us,  sever  ? 
Lo,  we  live  and  love  forever ! 

'Tis  not  love,  with  years,  that  waneth, 
But  the  want  of  love  within  ; 
All  that's  truly  born,  remaineth 
Still  a  deeper  love  to  win  ; 
As  the  grey  hairs  gather  on  us, 
And  new  sorrows  press  upon  us, 
Evermore  to  love  we  turn  ; 
Love  that's  like  the  charmed  phial, 
Love  that's  like  the  measured  dial, 
Never  wasting,  never  tired  ; 
And  our  drooping  spirits  burn 
With  the  deathless  essence  fired — 
O  what  is  there  goodly  left  us, 
When  the  spoiler  has  bereft  us, 
If  the  shrine  of  love  we  spurn  ? 
Nay,  my  Lelia,  we  will  never 
Quench  the  spirit's  warm  endeavor, 
But  live  on  and  love  forever. 


132  POEMS. 


PART  V. 

Day  by  day  our  life  decreaseth, 

Forehead  wrinkled,  hair  is  grey, 

Yet  the  fire  of  love  increaseth 

As  the  seasons  fade  away  ; 

Jove  has  wisely  thus  arranged  it 

As  our  ills  around  us  press, 

Giving  us  a  well  upspringing, 

Ever  to  our  presence  bringing 

"Waters  of  serener  life  ; 

Though  a  storm  may  have  deranged  it, 

Though  fond  eyes  an  hour  enstranged  it, 

Cankered  it  with  pain  and  strife ; 

Love,  with  soothing  comes  to  bless, 

Comes  o'er  every  human  sorrow, 

Comes  afresh  with  every  morrow, 

Folding  us  in  softer  arms ; 

New  delights,  though  old,  hang  o'er  us, 

Bowers  and  fragrance  spring  before  us 

Clad  in  love's  immortal  charms  ! 

Love,  O  love  !  whoe'er  hath  painted 
Half  thy  spirit,  half  thy  glow  f 
Who  has  given  us  below 


POEMS.  133 

Gleamings  of  thy  soul  untainted — 
Thou,  who  sprang  from  Ellas'  water, 
Fair  Eutherea's  crimson  daughter, 
Crimsoned  with  the  blush  of  light — 
Who  hath  shown  thy  lips  like  blossom  ? 
Who  thy  luscious  parian  bosom  ? 
Who  thine  eyes  like  stars  of  eve'n  ? 
Who  thy  cheeks  like  hues  of  heaven  ? 
Who  those  hands  and  glorious  ankles, 
Whence  the  darts  of  passion  spring  ? 
Dart  that  in  our  bosom  rankles 
Half  to  anguish,  half  delight; 
Cured  not 'till  love's  fairies  bring 
Bands  from  their  sweet  lips  to  swathe  it, 
Essence  from  their  eyes  to  bathe  it. 

When  the  purple  sky  is  glowing 
Clad  in  sunlight  soft  and  warm, 
O'er  the  vale  and  river  throwing 
Golden  summer's  sweetest  charm  ; 
Gaze  thou  up  the  archway  airy, 
See  yon  silver  mist-winged  fairy 
Tossing  light  upon  the  fountain, 
O'er  the  forest,  on  the  mountain, 
Bathing  all  the  rose  crowned  meadows 
First  with  gleaming,  then  with  shadows, 
11* 


134  POEMS. 

Casting  from  her  mystic  horn 
Yellow  fragrance  on  the  corn  ; 
Slighting  not  a  bud  or  flower, 
Lowly  glen  and  kingly  bower 
Each,  alike,  her  splendor  sharing, 
Each,  alike,  her  incense  bearing, 
That  is  love, 
Born  above, 

Love,  creation  ever  feeding, 
Love,  a  deeper  love  still  breeding  ! 

Unto  us  the  flame  imparted 
Though  in  poor  and  lesser  form, 
Deeper,  in  the  purer  hearted, 
Has  o'er  every  ill  and  storm, 

Upward  risen 

From  its  prison, 
Soaring  nearer  to  the  skies ; 
Mothers  to  their  children  give  it, 
Youths  and  happy  maidens  live  it 
In  the  tender  clime  of  sighs  ; 
In  the  language  of  the  eyes, 
In  the  lips,  when  fondly  pressing, 
One  short  moment  hath  a  blessing 
Worth  a  dozen  loveless  years  ! 
Thus  the  flame  around  us  living 
Is  to  all  its  portion  giving, 


POEMS.  135 

Springing,  wiping  many  tears, 
Kindling,  killing  many  fears  ! 

Two  sweet  eyes  of  childhood  beaming 
Gaze  into  their  mother's  face, 
Holy  glances  upward  streaming 
Swiftly  on  each  other  chace  ; 
Tn  the  depths  of  their  keen  blueness, 
Love  unspotted,  yet  in  newness, 

Fairest  seems  of  mortal  birth  ; 

Purest  here  upon  the  earth, 
Purest,  save  the  mother's  glances, 
Each,  of  which,  a  ripple  bright, 
O'er  the  bosom's  treasure  dances  • 
Like  a  wave  of  golden  light; 
Soul  to  soul  is  softly  flying, 
While  the  child  and  mother  eyeing 
Live  in  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
Love  beyond  the  rule  of  measure, 
Love  most  beautiful  and  holy, 
Though  it  sprang  from  bosoms  lowly. 


PART  VI. 

Not  alone,  in  skies  above  us, 

'Mong  the  gods  who  watch  and  love  us, 


136 

Not  alone  in  hearts  of  mortals 
Is  the  beam  of  love  displayed — 

Larger  sharing, 

Farther  bearing, 
Unto  us  indeed  is  sent ; 
Yet,  have  others  ope'd  the  portals, 
Other  forms  the  veil  have  rent — 

Dimer  shapes  of  the  creation 

Have  unlocked  the  revelation, 
And  with  their  upshooting,  borne 
Witness  to  the  glorious  Spirit, 
Which  so  many  shapes  inherit, 
Though  with  garments  soiled  and  torn  ; 
Filling  all  the  world  around  us 

O 

With  strange  images,  that  bound  us, 
Passing  by  the  vale,  or  stream, 
With  the  magic  of  their  gleam. 

See  thou  yonder  vine  that  springeth 

Close  beside  the  mossy  rock, 

How  it  ever  fondly  clingeth, 

Firmest  in  the  tempest  shock  ; 

Arms  of  little  leaves  out- thro  wing, 

In  the  smiling  sun-glance  growing 
Stronger,  fairer  every  day, 
While  the  rock,  with  tempests  grey 

Folds  it  closer  to  its  bosom, 


POEMS.  137 

Trickles  tears  upon  each  blossom, 
Like  a  mother,  young  and  tender — 
Mark  the  brook  wave,  as  it  kisses 
Grass  upon  the  tufted  brink, 
While  the  leaflets  stoop  to  drink, 
One  by  one,  the  ripples  splashing, 
On,  like  amorous  gallants  dashing 
Smack  the  overhanging  misses  ; 
Think  not  much  it  doth  offend  her, 
Whether  grass,  or  bud,  or  rose, 
For  they  all  with  glee  return  it, 
Whence  the  art,  or  how  they  learn  it, 
Jove,  their  maker,  only  knows. 

So,  too,  ocean  waves  and  surges, 
Not  alone  for  ships  create  ; 
Each  the  other  onward  urges, 
Mingling,  kissing,  intertwining, 
Blend  in  hidden  caves  reclining, 
Or  along  the  sand  of  beaches 
Fling  their  mist,  and  tide,  and  spray  ; 
Full  of  mirth  and  wanton  play, 
Like  wild  water  maids,  with  dresses 
Shook  up  proudly  to  be  seen, 
With  clear  eyes,  and  wavy  tresses 
Sparkling  in  the  summer's  sheen  ; 
In  their  recklessness,  half  courting, 
Seemingly  sincere,  then  sporting, 


138  POExMS. 

Yet  enough  of  love  betraying 
In  their  fickle  freaks  displaying. 

So,  too,  birds  their  beaks  together 

Lock  in  toying  wanton  mood, 

Sporting  in  the  leafy  wood 

Parted  not  by  time  or  weather, 

True  to  love's  implicit  law — 

So,  too,  when  the  winds  are  lifting 

Up  the  branches  of  the  trees, 

How  the  young  leaves  loving  hearted, 

By  a  gentle  tremor  started, 

Fondly  kiss  the  passing  breeze — 

Thus  from  every  path  we  draw 

Evidence  that  love  is  boundless, 

Though  it  has  a  thousand  forms — 

Thus  the  heart  of  man  is  bidden 

By  sweet  sounds  and  tongues  half  hidden, 

To  go  forth  in  quest  of  love  ; 

Earth  beneath  him,  sky  above, 

Are  o'erfilled  with  tender  voices, 

Each  alike  in  love  rejoices, 

Spite  of  sorrows,  and  of  storms  ! 


POEMS. 


PART  VII. 

O,  my  Lelia,  such  thou  kindled 
In  this  quivering  heart  of  mine  ; 
Royal  flame  by  time  undwindled, 
Flame,  supremest,  and  divine ! 
Though  it  shoots  less  fiercely  in  me 
Than  when  first  she  stooped  to  win  me, 
And  around  my  spirit  twine 

Softer  feelings, 

Holy  stealings, 

From  her  fount  in  mystic  clime  ; 
It  is  deeper,  smoother,  purer, 
Fuller  far  of  faith,  and  surer, 
More  exalted  and  sublime — 
For  as  passion  downward  sinketh, 
More  and  more  the  spirit  drinketh, 
More  and  more  the  reason  thinketh, 
And  the  shrine  of  love  embraces 
For  its  own  in-dwelling  graces. 
Love  like  ours  is  not  a  passion, 
Passion  dies  with  use  away  ; 
Ours,  the  vestal  fire  from  heaven, 
Quenchless  as  'twas  spotless  given; 
Ours  the  light  that  never  fadeth, 


POEMS. 

Though  the  cloud  or  midnight  shadeth, 
Ever  a  perpetual  day — 
Time  and  change,  and  creed  and  fashion, 
These,  she  all  alike  defies  ; 
Breaketh  prison  bars  asunder, 
'Scapeth  from  the  dungeon's  under, 
Laughs  amid  the  cannon's  rattle, 
Smiles  above  the  wreck  of  battle, 
Gazing  to  her  native  skies  ! 
She  hath  nerved  the  soldier's  feeling, 
Blest  the  martyr  lowly  kneeling, 
Cheered  the  slave  with  fetters  reeling, 

Broke  his  chains, 

Cured  his  pains, 

Such  her  strength  and  power  of  healing, 
Such  her  lofty  sweet  revealing, 

Think  not  strange  then  Lelia  won  me 
With  those  eyes  of  hers  upon  me, 
Or  that  I  forsook  the  lowly 
Who  had  loved  with  fire  as  holy, 
The  first  heart  was  not  for  me  ! 
In  the  absence  of  a  stronger, 
I,  by  nursing,  germing  longer, 
Might  the  flame  in  faintness  see  ; 
But  when  came  the  stronger  to  me, 
It,  in  spite  of  fate,  must  woo  me  ; 


POEMS. 

For  the  heart,  like  loam  well  furrowed 
Where  the  power  of  growth  lies  burrowed, 
Will,  when  plump  good  grain  is  scattered, 
Though  by  hail  of  tempest's  battered, 
Catch  the  seed,  and  fondly  nurse  it, 
Though  the  blasts  of  mildew  curse  it, 
And  the  winter  snows  disperse  it. 

Love  is  sacred,  and  its  keeping 
Should  be  like  the  altar's  fire, 
Guarded  waking,  guarded  sleeping, 
Parted  from  all  low  desire  ; 
As  within  it,  spirits  mingle, 
Curst  when  left  to  wander  single  ; 
For  with  all  things  heaven  created 
It  hath  hunger  to  be  sated, 
And  if  fed  with  fruits  unspotted, 
Hearts  to  virtue's  fane  allotted, 
It  shall  live  and  rise  forever, 
Live,  to  be  the  very  soul — 
Live,  to  spurn  the  base  control 
Outward  things  have  flung  around  it, 
Though  no  chain  hath  ever  bound  it; 
Chains  are  flax  cords  it  may  sever, 
As  the  candle  flame  hath  darted 
And  the  thread  of  spinner  parted. 
12 


142  POEMS. 

Deep  within  me,  like  a  river, 
Broad,  and  clear,  and  ever  strong  ; 
Glorious  gift  of  glorious  giver 
Let  its  holy  gleamings  thiong, 
Bearing  me  to  bliss  along ! 
Reckless,  I,  of  every  danger, 
Unto  every  care  a  stranger, 
While  the  light  of  love  is  mine — 
Fade  away  ye  starry  gleamings, 
Veil  your  face  ye  sunny  beamings, 
Only  leave  rne  love  divine — 
Love,  all  else  of  life  excelling, 
Love,  the  spirit's  clouds  dispelling, 
Love,  within  me  ever  dwelling 
While  I  bend  at  Leliars  shrine — 
Shrine  at  first  of  flame  and  beauty, 
Shrine  at  last  of  sacred  duty, 
Shrine  where  first  my  heart  was  riven, 
Where  my  vow  was  fondly  given, 
Where  I  found  my  worship  Heaven. 


PART  VIII, 

Lelia  !  Lelia  !  life  is  closing, 
Youth  and  middle  age  are  past ; 


POEMS.  1 

Far  away,  from  toil  reposing, 
Let  the  world  be  backward  cast — 
We  have  seen  and  we  have  tasted, 
We  have  hoarded  up  and  wasted, 
Fieshness  cannot  always  last ; 
Nay,  the  face  is  full  of  wrinkles, 
Time  the  white  hair  thickly  sprinkles, 
Limbs  are  weak  that  firmly  bore  us, 
Second  childhood  creepeth  o'er  us, 

Like  a  spell, 

Or  a  swell 

From  the  darkling  Lethean  river  ; 
Lo,  with  winter  chill  we  shiver, 
Passing,  passing  swift  away, 
Creatures  of  a  transient  day, 
Six  feet  long  of  earth,  the  dwelling 
Where  our  triumph  song  is  knelling ! 

Yet  though  life  is  beaming  dimly, 
And  the  spoiler  waiteth  grimly, 
Love  its  fire  has  doubly  quickened ; 

Love  is  now  the  hope  of  living, 
Love  is  only  solace  giving, 
Touch  and  taste,  and  smell  have  sickened, 
But  the  heart  hath  kept  its  feeling, 
And  is  now  to  us  revealing 
That  which  youth  in  part  concealed  ; 


144  POEMS. 

Deeply  down  the  soul,  it  showeth, 

How  in  calmness  ever  groweth 

The  resistless  spirit  flame — 

How  the  dream  we  early  cherished 

Of  mere  outward  beauty,  perished, 

And  above  its  desert  field 

Shoots  of  deathless  blossom  came  ; 

This,  though  we  are  deathward  treading, 

Is  within  us  lifeward  spreading, 

And  is  our  sublimer  wedding  ! 

But  one  thing,  ye  gods,  O  tell  me  ! 
When  we  sunder  life's  poor  chain, 
In  the  upper  regions  shall  we 
Meet,  and  live,  and  love  again  ? 
Will  my  Lelia  then  adore  me, 
Love  me  with  as  true  a  heart — 
With  fond  eyes  as  now  gaze  o'er  me, 
Will  her  lips  as  now  caress  me, 
Will  she  only  live  to  bless  me 
Guileless  as  to-day  of  art  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  1  beseech  thee, 
E'en  though  fate's  own  secret  teach  me, 
Tell  me  only  this,  and  I, 
Happy  wait  my  time  to  die  ! 
Ah,  I  hear  a  sweet  low  whisper, 
Voice  of  some  young  angel  lisper, 


POEMS.  145 

Voice  from  yonder  starry  dwelling 
On  the  wing  of  zephyrs  swelling, 
Saying,  "  ye  shall  live,  and  love, 
In  the  golden  world  above  !" 

Ha  !  enough,  O  Lelia,  hasten, 
Let  us  end  our  days  carressing, 
Lips  as  in  our  youth  time  pressing  ; 
Wave  thy  gold  thread  hair  above  me, 
Say  but  once  more  that  you  love  me  ; 
Be  thine  eyes  upon  me  beaming 
Like  two  stars  from  heaven  gleaming, 
Hold  me  with  thine  arms  so  tender, 
Hold  me,  hold  me,  hold  me  fast ! 
Until  I  to  death  surrender. 
Dearest  Lelia,  ope's  the  portal, 
Loves  immortal !  love's  immortal ! 
O'er  the  crumbling  dust  arisen, 
Up,  my  spirit  from  its  prison, 
Unto  love  forever  given, 
Leaps  into  its  native  heaven ! 


THE    Offl  A  IB  H  IL  !    SRI®! 

FROM  THE  DREAM  OF  A  FRIEND.* 


A  strange,  strange  world  is  that  of  dream, 
Whose  stars  upon  our  spirits  gleam 
In  many  a  fevered  sleeping  hour ; 
A  wondrous  spell  it  hath  of  power 
To  droop  its  pinions  o'er  the  soul, 
And  bid  of  joy,  or  sadness,  roll 
Henceforth  a  deep  and  swelling  river  : 
Our  hearts  are  of  suspicious  mould, 
And  many  a  phantasy  we  fold 
Half  seen  in  visions  of  the  night, 
When  ravens  come  at  break  of  day, 
And  croaking,  scare  our  dreams  away, 
With  fears  of  ill  that  make  us  shiver! 
The  shades  of  friends  we  loved  of  old, 
Half  peering  through  their  coffin  mould, 
With  eyes  all  lustreless  and  cold, 
Haunt  many  a  weary  after  time ; 
And  bells  we  heard  of  midnight  chime, 

*  Richard  B.urdsall,  N.  Y. 


POEMS.  147 

From  ruined  tower,  and  cloister  grey, 
Are  echoing  on  from  day  lo  day, 
And  o'er  the  fountains  of  our  feeling, 
Like  frost  upon  a  river  stealing. 

A  strange,  strange  dream  was  that  of  mine  ! 

Which  even  now,  around  the  shrine 

Of  memory,  like  a  vestal  fire, 

Has  much  to  dampen,  or  inspire : 

I  thought  beside  Niagara's  foam, 

Where  I  was  lingering  far  from  home 

To  drive  this  paleness  from  my  brow  ; 

That  some  wild  spirit  came  to  me, 

Some  shadower  of  my  destiny, 

And  bid  me  to  the  altar's  side, 

Where  stood  a  beauteous  form — my  bride — 

Ah,  yes,  my  bride  !  I  knew  her  well, 

That  moment,  like  a  Lethean  epeli, 

O'er  all  my  olden  life  was  cast, 

And  only  she,  of  all  the  past, 

Remained  to  fill  that  glorious  hour  ; 

And  I  must  wed  within  the  bower 

That  girl  of  fond  and  dreamy  face — 

What  thrills  across  my  bosom  came, 

How  pure  within  my  heart  the  flame, 

As  closer  to  the  shrine  I  drew ; 

How  fair  her  beaming  visage  grew 


148  POEMS. 

As  smiles  from  lip  and  cheek  would  chace- 
My  sister — lo  !   'twas  she  ;  yet  I, 
No  sign  of  kin  in  her  could  trace, 
Except  she  wore  the  sister's  brow, 
The  smile,  the  blueness  of  her  eye, 
Which  fate  had  only  given  her  now 
So  I  might  know  the  love  was  pure, 
The  lip  was  true,  the  heart  was  sure, 
Which  claimed  that  eve  the  sacied  vow. 

No  priest  was  nigh  to  cross  our  hands, 

No  friends  to  bless  the  closing  bands, 

For  there  we  coldly  stood  alone  ; 

Each  gazing  in  the  other's  eye 

With  something  like  intensity  ! 

But  ah,  soon  passed  that  chilling  spell, 

I  touched  the  shrine,  a  mossy  stone, 

On  which  the  night  dew  came  to  dwell, 

Beneath  the  lone  star  sparkling  bright ! 

Then  rose  I  to  fulfil  my  plight, 

To  give  those  ruby  lips  a  kiss  ; 

Away  !  away,  ye  dreams  of  bliss, 

The  form  I  loved  eluded  me  ; 

And  back  with  slow  and  measured  tread 

It  passed,  and  from  it's  visage  fled 

The  sister's  brow,  and  cheek,  and  smile, 

And  left  another's  to  beguile, 


POEMS.  149 

And  woo,  and  tempt,  and  only  flee, 

The  more  I  strove  to  gain  its  side, 

Till  in  the  distance  far  away 

It  turned  to  marble,  cold  and  grey, 

A  monument  of  blight  and  death, 

My  changed,  and  lost,  yet  living  bride ; 

For,  lo  !  her  eyes  were  sparkling  yet, 

Her  brow,  and  cheek,  and  lip  divine, 

Were  fresh  and' fair  as  at  the  shrine  ; 

And  on  the  mist  I  saw  her  breath 

Like  curling  vapor  upward  rise, 

And  blending  with  the  clouds  it  met, 

Return  in  soft  and  tender  sighs  ; 

While  heart,  and  soul,  and  ft-rm  had  turned 

To  marble,  like  a  life  in-urned, 

Whose  smile  should  win  the  passer  by, 

And  tempt,  then  mock  the  gazer's  eye. 

Such  was  my  dream,  and  there  my  bride 
Stands  ever  by  the  river  side, 
Received  in  faith,  in  falseness  lost; 
Still  o'er  the  heart  with  trouble  tost, 
To  live  in  all  of  memory's  hours  : 
And  like  that  dream  how  much  of  life, 
How  much  that  woo's  with  beauty  here, 
Retreats,  and  turns  to  marble  drear; 
And  only  in  these  souls  of  ours, 


150  POEMS. 

In  days  of  bitterest  wo  and  strife, 
Peers  out  with  eye  of  power  to  bless, 
But  only  stirs  our  wretchedness  ! 
Ah,  we  have  many  a  mystic  shrine, 
Whereon  the  leaves  of  blight  are  laid  ; 
Where  love,  and  beauty,  come  arrayed, 
To  wreck,  O,  man,  this  heart  of  thine. 
Not  all  of  dream — nor  far  away, 
But  here  in  waking  hour,  to-day  ! 
Some  charm  may  press  upon  the  soul, 
Some  spirit  bid  thee  to  the  goal, 
Where  lip  as  thine  own  sister's  fair 
Shall  bid  thee  kneel,  and  homage  swear, 
And  kiss  the  shrine  where  hope  is  laid — 
Aye  !  thou  shalt  woo  some  dreamy  maid 
And  rise  to  hear  her  tongue  deride, 
To  see  her  vanish  from  thy  side, 
As  faithless  as  my  Marble  Bride. 


T  [HI  H     GfS  (U)  D 


He  has  seen  brighter  da}rs  !  that  brow, 
Has  not  been  always  stained  as  now, 


POEMS.  151 

That  half  curled  lip,  and  glaring  eye 
Which  seems  to  gaze  on  vacancy, 
Proclaim  a  holier  childhood's  hour, 
Before  the  tempting  demon's  power 
Led  forth  the  heart  it  loved  so  well, 
To  taste  the  hissing  fire  of  hell ! 
Go  to  yon  cottage,  far  away, 
Where  brooks  in  summer  valleys  play, 
Beneath  that  roof,  a  mother's  joy, 
Behold  him  yet  a  smiling  boy, 
The  hope  of  love,  the  stay  of  age, 
A  blotless  line  of  nature's  page — 
Behold  him  now  in  manhood's  form, 

The  wreck  of  lust,  and  passion's  storm  ! 

The  mother  sleeps  with  broken  heart, 

The  cottage  roof  in  dust  is  laid, 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  decayed, 

While  he,  the  blasted  and  the  sear, 

Feels  not  a  pang,  nor  drops  a  tear. 

O,  God  !   what  poison  on  his  soul 

Has  played  so  fiercely  Lethe's  part  f 

What  chalice  bowl  hath  seared  his  lip  ? 

What  plague  the  human  tongue  could  sip 

And  have  such  silence  o'er  it  roll? 

Tell,  ye  who  haunt  the  lazaar  place, 

Who  lift  the  cup  of  mingled  gall, 

And  bid  the  midnight  curtain  fall 

O'er  every  dream  to  manhood  dear  ! 


152  POEMS. 

He  has  seen  brighter  days — ere  cast 

Upon  the  wave,  and  to  the  blast; 

For  even  now,  within  his  eye, 

I  mark  the  spirit's  agony  ! — 

I  see  the  heaving  billow  swell, 

And  scorpions  in  his  bosom  dwell 

In  hours  like  these,  when  dreams  come  back 

And  ciush  his  spirit  to  the  rack. 

O,  who  shall  say  how  long  he  stood, 

How  long  he  trembled  o'er  the  flood, 

Before  he  plunged  into  the  wave, 

And  made  himself  a  wretch,  a  slave  ? 

What  witching  eyes  seduced  him  first, 

What  syren  on  his  dreaming  burst, 

And  held  the  cup  of  foamy  wine, 

Or  bid  him  to  the  gambler's  shrine  ? 

O,  trace  him  step  by  step,  and  see 

How  much  it  cost  of  misery  ; 

How  many  pangs  that  soul  have  rent, 

Since  from  the  cottage  forth  he  went ; 

How  many  nights  of  sleepless  wo, 

That  like  a  vulture  gnawing  slow, 

Have  risen  but  to  days  of  pain, 

And  only  smote  the  living  slain  ! 

O,  sum  the  ill,  and  sum  the  strife, 

The  woes  and  errings  of  that  life, 

Has  not  the  ruined  one  been  paid 

For  evil  done,  and  good  delayed  ? 


POEMS.  153 

What  more,  O  brother,  would  you  add 
To  spirit  shrivelled,  sear  and  mad  ? 
What  other  grim'r  death,  O  tell — 
What  hotter  fire,  or  darker  hell ! 

I  cannot  pass  such  ruin  by 
And  feel  no  tear  drop  in  my  eye, 
I  cannot  say  to  him  whose  soul 
Was  once  as  free  and  fresh  as  mine, 
Go  !  end  thy  madness  in  the  bowl, 
Turn  not  again  to  virtue's  shrine  : — 
O,  no  !  though  stricken  to  the  earth, 
He  boasts  the  same  immortal  birth, 
He  claims  a  brotherhood — and  I, 
Must  yield  him  back  humanity  i 
O  let  me  take  his  hand  to  bless, 
To  soothe  his  grief  and  wretchedness, 
And  lead  him  up  again  to  life — 
Subdue  his  lust,  and  calm  his  strife, 
Press  back  those  wrinkles  on  his  face, 
And  while  the  lines  of  kin  I  trace, 
Performing  but  a  brother's  part 
Restore  to  him  his  childhood's  heart. 


AS    DT    OiB 


Life  is  the  earnest  of  a  far  off  goal, 

The  earth  a  dwelling  for  progressive  life  ; 

The  body  a  dark  prison,  where  the  soul 

Beats  round  like  drift-wood  on  the  rocks  of  strife  5 

Hope  is  our  evening  star,  and  faith  at  morn 

The  royal  sun  which  cheers  the  heart  forlorn. 

Here,  pilgrims  do  we  journey,  grief  and  joy, 
Fear,  doubt,  and  confidence  at  times  our  own  : 
Monarchs  in  dream,  and  beggars  when  alloy 
Comes  with  the  dawn  to  strip  our  gilded  throne  5 
Thus  walking  forth,  or  hobbling  ever,  we, 
Fulfil  the  measure  of  our  destiny. 

And  who  are  greater  ?  they  whose  bauble  crown 
Has  made  them  tyrants  for  a  little  day- — 
Or  the  victorious  who  tramp  cities  down, 
And  scarce  survive  the  horrors  of  their  fray  ? 
What  more  are  these  than  the  poor  cringing  slave 
Who  drags  his  fetters  to  the  pleasant  grave  ? 


POEMS  155 

A  score  of  years  shall  sift  them  back  to  dust, 

And  strip  the  one  as  naked  as  the  other ; 

The  chain  and  helmet  will  together  rust, 

And  they  lie  close  as  brother  would  with  brother  ; 

Fresh  flowers  o'er  cither's  body — sleep  they  sound, 

But  the  souls  altitude  their  fame  shall  bound ! 

The  proudest  king  is  an  imperial  fool, 
Who  thinks  his  throne  has  made  him  more  than  man, 
That  robe,  and  sceptre,  and  an  hour  of  rule, 
Have  lifted  up  and  placed  him  in  the  van  ; 
Moth  shall  eat  up  his  robes,  slaves  trample  o'er 
The  crumbled  stone  which  speaks  of  him  no  more  ! 

Doubt  if  ye  will — here  is  the  evidence, 
The  desert  places  where  old  empires  stood  ; 
Cities  and  states,  and  tribute  lands  immense — 
Their  splendor  wrecked  in  the  destroying  flood 
Of  years,  that  weave  around  the  pyramid 
Grey  moss,  'rieath  which  its  builder's  name  is  hid  ! 

Ask  the  proud  ruin  standing  desolate, 

Where  sleep  the  heroes  and  the  mouldered  kings  ? 

And  echo,  mocking  with  the  voice  of  fate, 

4  O  where  !'  'mid  isles  and  broken  columns,  rings — 

Dig  in  the  earth,  and  'mong  its  loosened  sands 

Feel  for  the  slave  and  monarch  with  thy  hands  ! 


156  POEMS. 

The  noblest  sat  securely  on  their  thrones, 
Sent  forth  their  legions  earth's  confines  to  pierce  ; 
When  lo !  like  furies  sweeping  from  their  zones, 
The  Timui's,  Brennus',  and  Alaric's  fierce, 
Brought  quivering  to  their  lips,  and  pallid  fear, 
Rome  stooped  to  Gaul !  Bajazet  to  his  bier  i 

Even  in  our  time  hath  risen  a  peasant  child, 
To  spoil  the  play  ground  of  a  dozen  kings, 
And  teach  obesiance  to  their  power  defiled  ! 
A  boy,  whose  name  supremely  o'er  them  rings — 
Heard  ye  the  damage  to  their  play-things  done, 
When  through  their  nursery,  strode  Napoleon  ? 

The  banners  of  our  western  world  are  bright, 
The  standards  of  the  east  are  fading  fast ; 
O'er  despot  gloom  comes  freedom's  dawning  light, 
Ere  long  the  fetter  and  the  throne  are  past — 
Like  air  or  waves  we  struggle  to  be  free, 
Each  day  but  proves  the  world's  equality. 

Thus  strive  the  realms  and  races  of  the  earth, 
Thus  struggle  on  to  rule,  or  to  be  free ; 
Thus  weartheir  chains  in  turn,  and  boast  their  birth, 
Hug  thrones,  or  galleys,  as  the  case  may  be — 
And,  '  as  it  is,9  the  world  moves  on  its  way, 
Brings  ages  forth  to  wrap  in  dust  away* 


POEMS.  157 

We  see  a  charm  in  all  things  here  create, 
From  smallest  mote,  to  the  supremest  star, 
As  they  shall  tend  to  make  us  small  or  great, 
And  only  do  they  charm  us  just  so  far — 
We  love  the  hidden,  or  part  hidden  most, 
Because,  it  tempts  us  at  the  greatest  cost. 

There  is  some  vision  ever  in  our  eyes, 

Some  glimmering  hope  beyond  the  storm  of  tears ; 

Some  fond,  sweet  dream  of  ours,  that  never  dies, 

Though  young  affection  feels  the  wreck  of  years  ; 

Philosophers,  apostles,  poets,  fools ! 

All  bend  to  fate,  and  are  her  supple  tools. 

And  yet  there  is  no  fate  omnipotent ! 
The  strong  soul,  striving,  overcometh  ill, 
The  weak  bows  down  with  vassallage  content, 
And  bides  the  hail,  which  hurtles  not  on  will ; 
Will  shapes  our  destiny — and  will  is  fate, 
To  make  us  lowly,  or  supremely  great ! 

Who  are  they — robed  in  purple,  or  gilt  cloth, 
Long  titled  lords,  or  undisputed  kings  ? 
And  who  these  serfs,  who  truckle  somewhat  loth, 
And  bow  to  splendor,  like  inferior  things  ? 
Sift  them  together  ;  which  is  which — can'st  say  ? 
Nay !  with  their  robes,  distinction's  passed  away. 
13* 


158  POEMS. 

O,  miserable  abjectness  !  poor  slave, 
To  kneel  before  an  image  of  thine  own  ; 
For  thy  own  rights  of  thine  own  equal  crave, 
And  to  thy  prayer  for  bread,  receive  a  stone ! 
Sluggard,  rise  up  !  become  a  man  again, 
Or  bear  unpitied  the  unyielding  chain. 

Is  he  grown  less  who  serves  his  kind  for  hire. 
Does  not  the  hire'r  also  toil  for  gain? 
Interest  is  labor's  law !  the  spirit's  fire 
Need  not  contaminate  itself  with  stain, 
That  its  rude  hands  work  for  a  lesser  pay  ; 
The  souPs  a  soul,  howe'er  we  toil  to-day. 

Hunt  up  ye  scorners,  your  past  pedigrees, 
Back  to  what  conquest  do  ye  trace  your  sires — 
The  Norman, — Gallic — or  some  other  ?  these 
Are  your  diploma's — mine,  alack !  aspires 
To  God  himself,  more  ancient  than  all  birth, 
Is  there  a  prouder  lineage  in  the  earth  ? 

Ahead,  ye  scorners,  beams  your  life  how  far  ? 
Alas,  your  shadows  dwindle  into  death  ; 
Ye  only  dazzle  as  ye  stride  the  car, 
Lost  and  forgotten  when  ye  part  from  breath ; 
Fame  hangs  upon  the  tissue  of  your  hems, 
And  ye  are  great  because  of  diadems  1 


POEMS.  159 

So  we  sometimes  do  freemen  qualify, 

If  they've  an  ass,  two  hundred  dollars  worth, 

Their  citizenship's  good  in  the  law's  eye  ; 

Thus  braying,  to  the  ballot-box  go  forth 

Not  freemen,  but  the  gold  which  made  them  free, 

And  ye  are  such,  say  all — and  so,  say  we  ! 

Appearances  we  may  not  always  trust, 
The  man  who  swaggers  with  such  pomp  to-day, 
To-morrow,  prisoned  for  some  breach  of  trust 
May  lie  in  statue-quo  ;  and  lips  which  pray 
Long  prayers,  with  oaths  blasphemous  quiver, 
As  storm  and  sunlight  mantle  on  a  river. 

How  is  our  greatness  born  ?  one  hall  of  slime — 
Opinion's  breath  fans  up  some  little  wave, 
In  plunges  man,  and  soaring  out  sublime 
Lifts  up  his  dapper  wings,  a  gilded  slave ! 
The  very  meanest  though  he  soar  so  high, 
The  serf  of  serfs  in  honest  freedom's  eye. 

There's  but  one  standard,  not  what  he  is  worth, 

As  in  the  common  parlance  of  the  day, 

For  wealth,  and  place,  and  advantageous  birth 

Pass  with  the  vulgar,  and  as  merit  sway — - 

The  man  is  only  man  howe'er  so  high, 

Who  does  to  man  as  he  would  be  done  by. 


160  POEMS. 

What  reck  I  all  these  palaces  of  stone, 

These  pillared  arches  of  unsated  pride — 

The  robber's  sword,  the  tyrant's  bauble  throne, 

His  strength  of  armies,  and  his  empire  wide  ? 

The  winds  which  blew  those  toy-things  of  an  hour, 

Will  wrest  them  back  with  a  relentless  power  ! 

And  who  would  be  a  lord,  hemmed  in  by  walls, 
With  none  but  slaves,  to  ask,  or  do  his  will — 
Live  curst,  die  curst  amid  his  splendid  halls, 
And  of  the  future  but  his  coffin  fill  ? 
We  may  extort  submission  from  the  tongue, 
But  all  true  homage  from  the  heart  hath  sprung. 

Cowl'd  monk  and  priest  are  uttering  hollow  prayer, 
The  cloister  dim  gives  echo  to  their  feet ; 
The  brave,  free  spirit,  in  the  open  air 
Sends  up  his  worship  to  the  mercy-seat, 
Bears  forth  no  dagger  underneath  his  robe, 
The  heart  repentant,  at  the  shrine  to  probe  ! 

Beware,  who  touch  ye  !  villains  do  profess, 
Like  evil,  preaching  virtue  unto  good — 
Be  strong,  O  soul !  the  vipers  to  repress  ; 
Be  keen  of  eye  to  search  the  poison  brood, 
And  shun  the  face  which  bears  a  canting  smile, 
The  devil's  look  weak  children  to  beguile. 


POEMS.  161 

My  years  are  few,  so  far  in  this  fair  world, 
Yet  I  have  seen,  where  I  expected  flowers, 
Rank  thorns  spring  up,  and  friendly  lips  grow  curl'd 
Which  bore  me  pleasant  smiles  in  other  hours — 
Not  only  in  the  sky,  black  clouds  are  rife, 
They  mock  the  sunshine  of  our  social  life. 

Blast  after  blast  preys  on  the  feeling  heart, 

As  days  of  chill  upon  the  river's  breast 

Bring  frost  and  ice — neglect  and  scorn,  are  part 

Of  the  strong  armor  suicide  loves  best ; 

The  weak  sink  under  such  rude  storms  as  these, 

The  strong  feel  stronger  in  the  wrathful  breeze. 

And  that  is  virtue,  stoutly  to  resist, 

Not  to  be  innocent  with  nought  to  tempt ; 

To  meet  the  satan  and  his  pleading  list, 

Then  cast  him  backward  with  serene  comtempt  ! 

Who  so  goes  forth,  is  mighty — and  no  goal 

Of  vulgar  kind  can  move  his  earnest  soul. 

Ye  friends,  however  adverse  fortune's  winds  may  be, 
However  keen  her  touch  of  winter  snows, 
Preserve  within,  the  spirit  that  is  free — 
Rise  o'er  earth's  hate  as  ever  greatness  rose— - 
Shall  butterflies,  who  bide  the  summer  day, 
Tempt  thee,  or  me,  to  loiter  by  the  way  ? 


162  POEMS. 

Ahead,  is  a  high  mission  to  fulfil, 
The  point  to  gain  is  our  own  happiness  ; 
The  means  are  ample,  with  a  trusty  will, 
We  may  go  forth  for  blessing  while  we  bless ; 
And  humble  much  of  human  scorn  and  pride, 
By  the  unyielding  progress  of  our  stride. 

What  matters  it  who  bow  in  crowded  street  ? 
Broadway  is  full  of  asses,  as  wise  men ; 
Things,  vamped  by  tailors,  every  day,  we  meet, 
Whose  smile,  an  insult  to  free  soul  had  been ; 
The  scum  of  nature  in  gay  laces  dressed, 
Poor  folly's  fools,  beneath  her  fetters  pressed  ! 

Aye,  bear  thee  on,  and  be  a  free  one,  thou — 
Strong,  only  as  thou  hast  a  consciousness, 
That  stain  rests  neither  on  thy  soul  or  brow ! 
To  such  an  one,  are  infinitely  less, 
The  fever'd  souls  who  earth's  great  phalanx  throng, 
Whose  fame  or  fortune  is  built  up  of  wrong. 

Can  wealth,  or  place,  give  peace  to  this  wild  heart, 

Which  beats  so  strangely  to  the  nod  of  fate  ? 

Nay !  fiery  fingers  on  the  wall  will  start, 

And  Mordecai's  be  sitting  at  the  gate  ; 

The  very  rack  we  build  to  torture  others, 

Our  peace  consumes,  and  our  enjoyment  smothers. 


The  height  of  my  ambition,  has  been  this,— 
To  earn  the  smile  of  honest  men,  though  rags 
May  be  their  livery — there  lies  a  bliss 
In  being  loved  by  them  !  life  never  drags 
With  him  who  earns  so  glorious  a  meed* 
Though  he  may  strive  continually  with  need. 

And  ye  may  win  their  love,  in  many  a  lane* 
Put  forth  your  hands,  the  lowly  one  to  cheer, 
And  up  their  gratitude  will  spring,  as  rain 
Descends  upon  the  harvests  of  the  year  ; 
The  deeds  of  virtue  a  respondence  meet— 
Who  labors  thus,  shall  have  his  joy  complete  ! 

There  is  a  heaven  for  every  human  soul, 

A  liberty  for  every  craving  spirit ; 

The  first,  is  won,  as  we  would  win  a  goal, 

The  second,  is  a  power  that  we  inherit — 

If  heaven  is  worth  thy  reaching  for,  'tis  thine, 

And  freedom  springs  to  those  who  touch  her  shrine* 

Think  ye  that  tyrants  only  fetter  slaves  ? 

Men  bow  themselves  and  bear  the  servile  yoke — 

Why  crouch  the  millions,  who,  like  ocean  waves, 

Might  rise  and  strike,  and  all  their  chains  be  broke? 

The  passive  serfs  who  tremble  at  the  steel, 

Do  more  for  bondage  than  the  iron  heel. 


164 

But,  lack-a-day  !  our  own  is  a  free  land— ^ 
Free?  bah  !  how  free?  when  tons  of  fetters  rattle, 
And  whips  ring  in  our  marts,  and  from  the  stand, 
Forms  like  our  own  are  bargained  for  as  cattle  ? 
Aye,  close  beside  the  capitol !  where  springs 
Our  royal  eagle  on  his  full  fledged  wings. 

But,  why  talk  of  our  freedom-— all  that  we, 

Or  ages  gone,  have  tasted  at  her  shrine, 

Is  but  a  mock — a  thing  of  bastardy  ! 

The  lofty  spirit,  the  full  light  divine, 

Is  only  shadowed,  we  may  win  it  yet, 

But  not  while  tyrants  in  our  strong-holds  sit. 

A  better  day  springs  on  the  vision  far, 

As  through  the  clouds,  that  dim  a  pleasant  night, 

Beams  faintly  forth  the  visage  of  a  star, 

Which  by-and-bye  shall  burst  with  lustre  bright, 

And  we  lift  up  our  eyes,  and  in  its  light, 

For  what  we  suffer,  our  own  selves  requite  I 

Thus  hope  I  on  from  day  to  coming  day, 
And  strive  to  turn  all  things  to  best  account ; 
With  patience  note  my  sands  dissolve  away, 
Our  seventy  years  are  but  a  small  amount — 
And  yet,  enough,  if  when  by  death  we're  prest 
We  have  four  friends  to  bear  us  to  our  rest! 


From  canvass  old,  and  dark  grey  stone, 

What  eyes  are  peering  on  my  soul  ; 

The  great,  and  glorious  of  the  past, 

The  children  whom  Apelles  wrought, 

And  Phidias,  of  immortal  fame  ; 

And  he,*  who  by  his  marble,  grown 

To  almost  blushing  life  and  thought, 

Died  grieving  at  his  wondrous  goal, 

The  first,  the  greatest,  and  the  last. 

How  fair,  before  my  longing  eyes, 

Their  hero  forms  in  pomp  arise, 

And  through  the  dust,  and  mould  of  age, 

O'er  many  a  story-telling  page, 

Restore  the  dead  and  lost  again, 

For  whom  we  dreamed  and  prayed  in  vain, 

To  see  the  purple  vein  which  glowed 
Beneath  a  brow  by  beauty  blest, 
Where,  to  the  heart  a  life-stream  flowed 

*  Pygmalion. 


166  ?OEMS' 

Like  wine  from  clustering  vintage  pressed  ; 
To  gaze  on  cheek,  and  fringed  lid, 
And  lip  that  mocked  the  fairest  cluster 
Of  rose-hued  grapes,  of  biightest  lustre, 
Where  scorn,  and  witching  smiles  were  bid- 
To  see  those  fingers,  soft  and  white, 
With  crimson  tinged,  as  through  them  glanced 
The  blood  that  from  the  heart  up  danced, 
Like  silvery  brooks,  beneath  the  light 
Of  gayest  noon,  or  sweetest  eve — 
To  see  a  form  divinely  glowing 
With  all  that  tempts  our  human  heart, 
Before  us  from  the  canvass  start, 
Peifected  by  the  touch  divine, 
Which  bids  a  life  in  newness  shine 
When  all  that  life  has  passed  away  ; 
Such  spells  as  these,  around  us  weave 
The  glories  of  a  perished  day, 
And  claim  the  awe,  and  praise  we  yield, 
To  those  endowed  such  power  to  wield. 

And  such  art  thou,  apostle  strong  ! 
Around  whose  brush,  creations  throng, 
Which  mock  the  real  they  reflect ; 
Strange  eyes  from  off  thy  canvass  shine, 
And  gaze  into  these  orbs  of  mine 
With  a  wild  look  of  life  and  meaning, 


POEMS.  167 

As  though  they  were,  linked  spirits,  gleaning 
The  inmost  workings  of  my  soul. 
Hast  thou  not  with  thy  touch  of  art, 
Beneath  that  face  enthroned  a  heart, 
Whose  living  purple  ever  gushes 
Into  those  cheeks,  and  lips,  their  blushes  ? 
Aye,  e'en  a  part  of  thought  and  soul 
Decoyed  beyond  their  prison  goal, 
And  bound  them  with  thy  pencil  there, 
Henceforth  a  wondrous  life  to  share  ? 
Ah,  wizard  spell !  why  should  men  die, 
Or  fear  to  die,  when  thou  canst  shift 
Them  to  the  canvass,  all  but  breath  ? 
And  bid  them  laugh  at  time,  and  death ; 
Or  e'en  defiance's  banner  lift, 
And  rise,  though  dumb,  supremely  great, 
To  scorn  the  awful  lash  of  fate. 

Stay  not  thy  hand,  O  genius  child  ! 

Stoop  not  for  gold,  nor  lure,  nor  charm  ; 

Give  not  the  labor  of  that  arm 

Which  steals  the  glory  of  the  sky, 

And  weaves  it  'round  such  brows  as  mine, 

To  aught  that  can  decay,  or  die. 

Thou  art  a  worshiper,  thy  shrine 

Is  beauty's  blush,  her  smile  divine  ; 

O  from  it,  never,  never  part ! 


POEMS. 


But  weave  the  incense  of  thy  heart, 
And  woo  the  goddess  fair  and  young, 
And  from  thy  canvass,  whence  have  sprung 
Such  glorious  forms  of  life,  shall  start 
Obedient  to  the  master's  will, 
Our  very  selves,  we  living  still. 


IF  D  ©  T  HD  ft  I  =* 


Ha  !  I  must  pause  and  gaze  on  this  sweet  face, 

No  less  than  the  fair  angel  of  my  dreams. 

What  eyes,  what  cheeks,  what  tempting  lips,  what 

curls  ! 

E'en  as  I  saw  them  in  that  passing  hour, 
When  beauty's  angel  stole  upon  my  sleep 
And  left  a  fairy  presence.     What  liquid  fire 
Falls  from  those  cloudless  orbs  upon  my  soul ; 
How,  like  ripe  berries  from  the  charmed  tree, 
Which  woos  the  heart,  and  fetters  it  forever, 
Seem  those  two  ruby  lips,  that  like  a  veil 
Of  rosy  tint,  hide  their  secreted  pearl. 

*  Flora,  by  J.  K.  Fisher. 


POEMS.  169 

Those  hills  of  crimson,  mellow  as  the  eve 
Which  folds  its  face  beneath  the  sun-set's  blushes. 
So  much  for  cheeks — cheeks,  I  have  idolized — 
Aye,  but  not  such  as  these,  these  passing  fair  ! 
Hast  seen  a  knoll  on  a  fresh  summer  morn, 
Say  June,  all  shaded  over  with  gay  flowers, 
Daises,  and  violets,  and  scented  grass, 
Kissing  the  first  red  shadow  of  the  sun, 
As  it  came  streaking  from  the  golden  east  ? 
Then  thou  hast  seen  those  cheeks  ! 

I  fain  would  taste  them, 

Nay,  not  now  !  my  lips  are  soiled  ;  when  purified 
By  a  long  penance  day  of  abstinence, 
Then,  not  till  then,  will  I  presume  to  kiss. 
And  these  gay  ringlets,  floating  on  the  air 
Just  like  so  many  blossoms,  or  young  vines, 
Shading  a  beauteous  castle — fain  would  I, 
Among  them  thrust  my  hand,  and  pluck  a  fetter 
For  the  foot  of  time  !     O  ye,  delusive  charms, 
Are  ye  but  mocking  the  enraptured  heart 
With  your  strange  loveliness  ?     Is  there  no  life 
Behind  that  parian  brow  ?  quivers  no  heart 
Within  that  bosom  deep,  like  vestal  fire 
Upon  its  altar  ?     Hush  !  the  lips  would  speak, 
O,  that  they  might,  so  I  could  drink  their  music — 
Nay,  'tis  dumb !     'Tis  but  a  picture — Artist, 
14* 


170  POEMS. 

Take  it  hence,  hide  it  beneath  a  veil ; 

Thou  should'st  not  tempt  me  with  unreal  things, 

Or  hang  thy  angel  shadows  in  my  path, 

To  mutely  mock  with  features  passionless  ! 

I  dream  of  beauty,  but  the  vision  fades, 

For  they  were  spirits  of  a  fairy  land, 

Of  whom  I  dreamed — and  only  in  the  hours 

Of  night  and  darkness,  flashed  upon  my  sleep. 

Not  so  with  thine,  which  bears  so  much  of  earth, 

As  on  the  heart  to  spring  and  grow  an  idol, 

More  worshiped,  still  more  dumb — forever 

Cheating  with  its  hollow  charms, 


Wail  for  the  dead  !  life's  ever  wayward  spark, 
From  one  strange  breast  has  lately  passed  away ; 
Wail  for  the  dead,  for  lo  !  M'Donald  Clarke, 
Child  of  high  song,  lies  in  the  charnel  dark, 
Wrapt  in  white  robes  to  moulder  into  clay. 

It  seems  to  us  but  yesterday,  we  heard 
His  mellow  voice,  as  on  the  batter  y-rail 


POEMS.  171 

He  leaned,  and  wove,  with  many  a  mystic  word, 
Strange  thoughts,  which,  in  our  bosoms,  stirred 
Emotions  stranger  than  his  artless  tale. 

For  we  had  heard  men  call  him,  Poet  mad  ! 
And  laugh  at  that  poor  stricken  soul  forlorn, 
Which,  stooping  down  at  nature's  shrine,  was  glad 
To  twine  one  flower,  and  give  it,  humbly  clad, 
Back  to  the  world  in  payment  for  its  scorn. 

That  soul  has  fled,  no  more  on  earth  to  sing 

The  scattered  numbers  of  undying  song  ; 

But  high  above,  where  angels  spread  the  wing, 

It  soars,  to  touch  the  lyre  of  golden  string, 

And  chaunt  God's  glory  with  the  deathless  throng. 

No  more  the  roar  of  ocean,  nor  its  wave, 

Nor  tide  majestic,  nor  wild  lawless  surge, 

Nor  glittering  spray,  nor  Naiad's  coral  cave, 

Nor  brooks,  nor  streams,  that  nature's  bosom  lave, 

Shall  wake  for  him  the  triumph  song  or  dirge. 

No  more  we  hear  the  muimuring  of  that  fount, 
Which  lisped  of  stars  and  hidden  pearly  springs  ; 
Which  fresh  from  out  the  high  Olympian  mount, 
Loved  most  of  all  life's  pleasures,  to  recount 
Such  loftier  deeds,  as  high-born  poet  sings. 


172  POEMS. 

Poor  child  of  song  !  his  path  through  life  was  dim, 
And  dark  at  times  the  chamber  of  his  brain  ; 
Stern  wo  filled  up  his  goblet  to  the  brim, 
While  airy  phantoms  hovering  round  him  grim, 
Crowned  every  joy  with  darkling  throes  of  pain. 

The  laugh,  the  sneer,  the  idle  jest  he  felt 
Like  cankered  arrows  piercing  to  his  heart ; 
And  wilder  grew  his  phrenzy,  as  he  knelt 
Beneath  the  blows  by  callous  mortals  dealt, 
And  writhed,  and  groaned,  and  died  beneath  the 
smart. 

He  is  no  more  \f  we  bid  his  dust  farewell, 
And  turn  to  muse  on  what  he  uttered  here ; 
Though  madly  spoken,  madness  has  a  spell, 
A  power  to  make  the  startled  bosom  swell ; 
Such  power,  M'Donald,  followed  thy  career. 

Wail,  wail  for  him !  though  an  erratic  light, 
The  world  may  wait  foi  such  another  long ; 
Whene'er  he  gleamed,  his  fancy's  sky  was  bright, 
Whene'er  he  sung,  truth  triumphed  in  his  flight, 
And  loved  to  crown  his  wild  and  wayward  song. 

Wail,  wail  for  him  !  M'Donald  is  no  more  ! 
The  battery-rail  must  wait  for  him  in  vain  ; 


POEMS.  173 

He,  death's  dark  stream,  at  last,  has  ferried  o'er, 
To  string  his  harp  on  the  Elysian  shore, 
And  wake  to  life  a  more  exalted  strain. 

Wail,  wail  for  him!  the  bard  is  in  his  grave, 
To  muse  on  things  mysteriously  dark  ; 
Such  is  the  fate  of  noble  and  of  brave — 
O  may  wild  flowers  above  his  ashes  wave, 
And  mark  the  couch  of  poor  M'Donald  Clarke. 


H 


Thrice  hallowed  name  !  upon  the  scroll  of  feeling 
In  golden  letters  written  and  impressed, 
With  every  hour  thy  form  before  me  stealing 
Lights  up  my  soul,  and  soothes  this  troubled  breast ; 
In  the  gay  world  or  in  the  closet  kneeling, 
Thy  presence  is  to  me  a  calm  revealing 
Of  that  pure  love,  which  smothers  all  the  rest ; 
Of  earthly  love,  the  purest,  and  the  best. 

I  think  of  the  young  days  when  bending  o'er  me, 
Thou  watched  the  cradle  where  I  helpless  lay, 


174  POEMS. 

And  for  my  very  weakness  did  adore  me  ; 
(O  were  I  now  as  in  that  childhood's  day,) 
And  as  I  grew,  marked  out  the  way  before  me, 
Or  bade  me  rest  when  toilsome  labor  wore  me ; 
I  think  of  those,  those  loved  times,  passed  away, 
Whose  memory  will,  with  thine,  forever  stay. 

Is  there  a  love  all  other  loves  excelling  ? 
I  yield  it  upas  homage  at  thy  shrine; 
Because,  I  know,  if  God  has  deigned  a  dwelling 
In  this  poor  world,  'tis  in  that  heart  of  thine  ; 
Whose  only  impulse  is  true  love,  impelling 
To  good  deeds,  and  fancy  has  been  telling, 
If  ever  spirits  in  clay  temples  shine, 
The  life  that  warms  my  Mother  is  divine. 

Dear,  Mother !  now,  while  sterner  cares  are  teeming, 
And  every  day  some  added  burthen  brings  ; 
With  brighter  lustre,  every  moment  gleaming, 
I  feel  thy  presence  like  a  spirit's  wings — 
And  oft,  in  wildriess  of  my  fancy  dreaming, 
I  see  thine  eyes  above  me  fondly  beaming, 
And  I  am  happy  ;  I  forget  the  stings 
That  wound  my  heart  in  these  imaginings. 

Dear,  Mother  !  where  so'er  I'm  straying, 
Though  near  or  distant,  I  at  times  may  be, 


POEMS.  175 

Alike,  thy  presence  or  thy  memory  swaying, 
Through  storm  and  calm  shall  always  compass  me  ; 
And  when  with  age,  the  haunts  of  youth  surveying, 
I  chide  the  time  that  chides  my  own  delaying, 
Each  scene,  each  wreck,  each  relic  on  life's  sea, 
Will  lead  my  soul  to  fondly  think  of  thee. 


Yra  n\ 
ira  ini  a 


There  is  a  face  we  all  have  seen, 
And  loved,  because  it  gently  smiled  ; 
A  pair  of  heavenly  beaming  eyes, 
Whose  lustre,  like  the  orient  dyes 
Of  sweetest  summer  morning  came, 
And  on  our  hearts  by  stain  defiled, 
The  very  light  of  love  became  ; 
Till  we  were  ravished  and  beguiled 
To  fairer  lands  in  dreaming  hours, 
And  made  so  good  and  pure  of  heart, 
That  from  our  presence,  only  start, 
Fond  hopes  and  ever  blooming  flowers. 

Ah  !  it  was  Myra  whom  I  saw, 
An  angel  in  a  mortal's  dress, 


176  POEMS. 

A  woman  full  of  loveliness  ; 

A  sweet  young  girl,  within  whose  gaze, 

As  through  the  morning's  silvery  haze, 

A  glorious  woild  is  partly  hid  ; 

Yet  when  she  ope'd  that  fringed  lid, 

No  evening  star  hath  brighter  shone, 

No  dream  a  softer  radiance  thrown. 

Around  the  thrilled  and  trembling  soul, 

A  flood  of  halo  seems  to  roll, 

And  melting  from  those  azure  eyes, 

Restores  it  back  to  paradise. 

O,  Myra,  has  the  gentlest  heart, 
A  soul  to  feel  for  every  sigh ; 
The  lowly  form  that  passeth  by 
The  cottage  where  her  father  dwells, 
Of  Myra's  love  and  goodness  tells — 
Her  hands  the  pilgrim's  brow  have  prest, 
The  weary  sufferer  is  her  guest 
Who  faints  upon  the  dusty  way  ! 
With  him  she  stoops  to  watch  and  pray, 
To  bathe  his  lips  with  holiest  balm, 
His  wounded  spirit  soothe  and  calm, 
And  point  him  to  the  land  of  rest. 

Say  not,  the  heart  is  soiled  and  lost, 
Ye  have  not  seen  my  Myra's  face, 


POEMS.  177 

Ye  have  not  felt  the  kindling  grace 
Which  gives  the  wastes  of  life  a  bloom — 
O  think  not  faith  and  hope  are  sear, 
Until  ye  gaze  into  those  clear 
And  witching  eyes,  that  gleam  and  melt, 
And  feel  the  ecstacy,  I've  felt, 
Which  blotted  every  shape  of  gloom 
And  won  me  back  to  virtue's  side, 
Till  Myra  grew  my  spirit-bride ! 


He  is  a  Poet!  from  whose  lips 

The  light  and  fire  of  life  have  sprung. 

Forever  fresh,  forever  young, 

To  melt  around  the  charmed  heart, 

And  never  from  our  presence  part. 

He  is  a  Poet !  from  whose  tongue 
The  words  of  love  and  truth  arise, 
As  lightning  from  the  clouded  skies 
Leaps,  to  descend  and  burst  the  chain, 
No  tyrant  dares  restore  again  ! 
15 


178  POEMS. 

He  is  a  Poet !  from  whose  heart 
Forever  gush  the  summer  flowers, 
Which  twine  around  these  souls  of  ours, 
And  while  half  ravished,  we  admire, 
Become  our  spirits  holier  fire. 

He  is  our  Poet !  yet  the  world 
May  touch  the  fountain's  golden  rim, 
May  drink  his  glorious  battle  hymn, 
And  stronger  rise  from  day  to  day 
To  cast  the  ills  of  life  away. 


We  are  parting,  my  friend !  the  hour  draweth  nigh, 

When  our  sad  lips  must  breathe  the  farewell — 
When  unbidden  tear-drops  will  start  to  the  eye, 

And  sighs  from  the  full  bosom  swell ! 
Yet  we  part  not  as  those,  who,  when  long  years  are 
fled, 

Must  the  dull  weight  of  absence  sustain, 
For  hope  sweetly  whispers,  ere  long  time  hath  sped, 

We  shall  mingle  in  friendship  again ! 


POEMS.  179 

I  go  !  but  where  hoarsely  the  black  surge's  roar 

On  my  ear,  like  a  thunder-burst  breaks — 
Where  wild  rushing  waters  their  deep  anthem  pour, 

And  echo  eternally  wakes  ! 

There's  a  voice  with  the  sound  of  the  storm-spirit's 
peal, 

That  in  deep  under-tone  will  combine, 
And  soft,  on  the  ear  of  my  spirit  will  steal — 

That  voice,  O  my  friend,  will  be  thine ! 

I  shall  see  thee  !  when  weary,  I  sink  to  my  rest, 

On  the  ocean's  wild  far-away  shore, 
There's  an  unquiet  spirit,  which  dwells  in  my  breast, 

That  in  dreams  will  thine  image  restore  ! 
Thou  wilt  come,  thy  pale  brow  illumed  by  the  fire, 

Which  genius  has  lit  in  thy  soul, 
And  the  wild  notes  of  music  will  gush  from  thy  lyre, 

Which  so  oft  to  my  bosom  have  stole  ! 

Thou  wilt  be  by  my  side,  when  in  moments  of  fear, 

Death's  dark  waving  pinions  are  seen — 
I  shall  hear  thee,  and  know  thee,  and  feel  thou  art 
near, 

Though  'twixt  us,  wide  seas  intervene  ! 
For  the  link  which  can  spirit  to  spirit  unite, 

Not  absence,  nor  distance  dissolves — 
As  the  planet  breaks  not,  in  its  furthermost  flight, 

From  the  orb  around  which  it  revolves ! 


180  POEMS. 

I  go  !  yet,  oh  say,  ere  T  bid  thee  farewell, 

That  thou'lt  think  of  me,  cherish  me  yet ! — 
I  deem  not  that  aught  can  thy  friendship  dispel — 

Yet  tell  me — "  I  will  not  forget !" 
And  when,  at  last,  back,  with  glad  footsteps  I  come, 

My  long,  weary  journeyings  o'er, 
O,  wilt  thou  be  here  then  to  welcome  me  home, 

To  my  loved  and  my  cherished  once  more ! 


T 


We  are  parting,  indeed  —  but  we  part  .not  i 

Like  the  many  who  hope  never  moie, 
On  the  storm  of  our  grief  a  bright  rainbow  appears, 

And  with  beauty  illumines  it  o'er  —     ••.-*«••;••:  « 
That  rainbow  is  hope,  and  1  trust  in  its  smile, 

For  it  whispers  in  vision  to  me, 
We  shall  meet,  as  we  met,  in  a  brief  little  while, 

Where  my  spirit  may  worship  with  thee  ! 

We  are  parting  —  yet  think  not  that  distance  can  tend 

To  lessen  the  love  that  I  feel, 
On  my  soul  is  engraven  thy  spirit,  dear  friend, 

With  a  pen  that  is  stronger  than  steel  — 


POEMS.  181 

Though  mountains  may  bar,  and  wide  seas  intervene, 

Over  all  other  pleasure  or  pain, 
Firm !  firm  in  my  bosom  that  love  will  be  green, 

Till  we  mingle  our  spirits  again. 

I  shall  feel  it  when  sorrow  steals  over  my  soul, 

Like  an  angel  with  shadowy  wing, 
And  in  dream  when  sweet  visions  around  me  uproll, 

Like  a  paradise  flower  thou  wilt  spring — 
Thy  soft  beaming  eyes  like  a  spell  will  entrance, 

Though  thy  face  may  be  far,  far  away, 
And  my  spirit  will  live  in  the  light  of  that  glance, 

Which  has  hallowed  its  rapture  to-day  ! 

Thou  wilt  be  by  my  side,  when  I  bow  at  the  fane 

Where  our  souls  were  enkindled  with  fire, 
I  shall  know  thee,  and  list  to  the  low  soothing  strain, 

As  it  spiings  from  thy  magical  lyre; 
And  adovvn  in  my  heart  will  the  memories  burn 

Of  those  hours  which  have  forged  the  sweet  chain, 
To  whose  bondage,  with  joy  all  unspoken  L  turn, 

While  a  sand  in  life's  glass  shall  remain. 

Yes,  my  friend,  though  we  part,  we  shall  meet  as 

we  met, 
By  the  fane,  and  the  hearth,  and  the  board  ; 


15* 


182  POEMS. 

And,  oh !  dream  not  in  fear,  that  my  heart  will  forget, 

The  idol  so  long  it  adored — 
'As  the  planets  revolve,  round  their  orbs  in  the  sky,' 

As  the  worshiper  kneels  at  his  shrine, 
My  heart  to  thy  law  of  attraction  will  fly, 

And  my  soul  shall  be  blended  with  thine  ! 


She  was  my  love,  the  spirit  of  my  dream  ! 
The  fond  sweet  soul  that  ever  solaced  me ; 
Around  my  pillow  like  a  sunset  gleam, 
Kissing  the  billows  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Came  her  angelic  smile,  and  I  was  blest 
To  feel  its  radiance  on  my  forehead  rest. 

Others  have  loved  for  guile — she  scorns  the  art 
Which  tinges  deadness  with  a  hue  of  life, 
Whose  fruit  is  ashes  to  the  trusting  heart, 
Which  pains  and  sorrows  in  the  path  of  strife  ; 
Through  unmistaken  deeds  which  have  no  goal, 
I  saw  and  felt  the  sincereness  of  her  soul ! 


POEMS.  183 

O,  was  it  more  of  heaven,  or  less  of  earth 
Which  moved  her  spirit,  only  God,  may  know  ; 
Ella  had  pity's  tear,  and  joy's  calm  mirth, 
And  all  that  thrills  or  beautifies  below  ; 
Her  duties  were  all  pleasures,  and  each  day 
Polished  the  charm  of  that  which  passed  away. 

Ella,  yet  lives !   in  spirit  we  are  wed, 
And  pass  together  life's  unruffled  stream  : 
Yet  she  is  far — the  ocean  makes  its  bed 
Between  my  footsteps  and  her  place  of  dream, 
Though  every  eve,  as  draws  its  foot-fall  nigh, 
Blends  all  our  tears  and  mingles  every  sigh  ! 

Beauty  was  Ella's  lot,  the  grace  which  lies 
Full  in  the  soul,  and  every  day  serene  ; 
In  the  deep  blueness  of  her  tranquil  eyes 
Fair  as  the  sovran  star  at  twiKght  seen, 
Lives  the  hearts  passionate  tenderness, 
Bidding  all  gazers  its  soft  power  confess  ! 

Such  is  the  bride  my  fitful  heart  halh  chosen, 

Such  the  fair  creature  of  my  spirit's  love  ; 

My   mortal  goddess,  till  the  soul  is  frozen, 

And  hope  has  quenched  her  beaming  star  above — 

The  world,  with  her,  a  blooming  paradise, 

Without,  a  desert  'neath  the  stormful  skies  ! 


To  die  !  to  be  no  more  !   to  pass  away 
From  this  green,  quiet  world  of  flowers, 
Arid  glorious  sunlight ;   from  the  spiay 
Of  crystal  fountains,  to  decay 
Amid  the  spring  of  the  eternal  hours, 
All  unremembered,  save  as  silent  clay, 
Which  human  feet,  or  iron  hoofs  may  spurn ; 
This  is  to  die — a  lesson  all  must  learn  ! 

To  feel  the  heart  cords  breaking,  one  by  one  ! 
While  springing  tears  congeal  upon  the  cheek  ; 
To  know  thy  breath  its  little  race  has  run, 
And  thou  can'st  not  the  parting  farewell  speak, 
Save  through  set  teeth !   To  mutter,  and  when  done, 
Like  Byron,  find  thy  whisper  was  too  weak ; 
Then  shrink  in  speechless  agony  !  a  sun  ! 
Flung  blotted  from  its  lofty  sphere  of  light, 
To  sink  forever  in  unending  night. 

To  see  the  morning  sun,  that  brightly  rose, 
Resplendent  with  its  flashing,  gather  dim 


POEMS.  185 

Upon  the  fading  eye — to  see  unclose, 

Those  curtains  for  the  last  time,  to  the  brim 

Of  the  swoln  heart  the  poisoned  arrow  goes, 

And  taps  the  fount  of  anguish — while  the  grim, 

Pale,  terrible  king,  upon  the  throes 

Of  our  own  awful  fainting,  like  the  wave 

That  whelms  a  swimmer,  sweeps  us  to  the  grave  ! 

To  shriek  for  light !  to  struggle  in  the  dark, 
And  feel  thy  limbs  in  that  mysterious  river — 
To  gasp,  and  fling  thy  arms,  and  find  no  barque 
But  a  cold  ice,  that  makes  thee  twitch  and  shiver — 
To  know  thy  hour  is  come,  at  last,  ha,  hark  ! 
The  eyes  turn  glassy,  and  the  pale  lips  quiver ; 
Ho  !  it  is  quenched,  life's  perishable  spark  ! 
The  rattle  springs,  it  bears  away  the  breath, 
Dust,  thou  art  dust  again,  and  this  is  death  ! 


How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  better-land, 
When  thou  and  I,  from  earth  have  passed  away  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  be,  that  in  thy  shining  hand 
Mine  own  may  rest,  as  it  hath  done  to-day  ? 


186  FOEMS. 

Not  in  farewell,  though — in  that  upper  clime, 
Could  partings  enter,  'twere  no  home  for  me  ! 
To  meet — to  meet — through  all  unending  time 
No  moie  to  sever — must  Elysium  be  ! 

How  shall  I  find  thee  ?  at  what  glorious  shrine 
Will  thy  rapt  spirit  sweep  the  seraph's  lyre? 
'Mid  the  rich  voices  that  are  all  divine, 
How  can  I  tell  if  thine  have  joined  the  choir? 

Idle  my  question — on  the  mother's  heart, 
Are  not  the  tones  of  her  first-born  imprest? 
Though  from  her  arms  for  long,  long  years  he  part, 
Can  the  dear  voice  be  banished  from  her  breast  ? 

Oh,  she  would  know  the  ne'er  forgotten  still, 
Gone  though  each  trace  of  the  old  look  he  wore — 
In  her  deep  heart  there  is  a  pulse  would  thrill 
When  the  clear  voice  should  meet  her  ear  no  more  ! 

Will  not  thy  spirit,  then,  be  known  to  me, 
Amid  ten-thousand  thousand  seraphs  bright, 
Though  not  one  feature,  that  I  now  can  soe, 
Remain,  to  guide  my  yearning  spirit's  sight? 

Aye  !  by  the  sudden  and  mysterious  thrill 
Which  quivers  thro'  me,  as  thy  melting  strain 


POEMS.  187 


Falls  in  sweet  gushings  on  my  spirit,  still^- 
Still  shall  I  know  thee  in  that  land  again  ! 


T© 


Shall  we  meet  ?  do  ye  doubt,  in  the  land  of  the  blest, 
That  our  spirits  will  greet  as  of  yore — 

That  away  where  the  weary  have  gone  to  their  rest, 
The  loved  shall  be  parted  no  more  f 

Shall  me  meet  ?  oh,  I  trust  by  the  hopes  of  the  soul, 

That  breathe  of  a  union  divine  ; 
Our  hearts  will  be  joined  at  that  beautiful  goal, 

And  thy  lips  be  pressed  fondly  to  mine  ! 

Shall  we  meet  ?  O,  would  heaven  be  heaven  to  thee, 
If  the  friends  whom  we  cherished  below, 

In  that  far-land  of  promise  we  never  might  see, 
And  the  smiles  of  the  loved  never  know  ? 

O,  no !  for  my  soul  has  a  heaven  e'en  here, 

In  this  pilgrimage  journey  of  pain, 
If  around  me,  the  fond  and  the  faithful  are  near, 

Never  more  to  be  parted  again. 


188  POEMS. 

O  yes,  we  shall  meet !  for  the  dead  who  are  gone, 

Even  now  in  our  dreaming  return ; 
And  beckon  us  up  where  their  spirits  have  gone, 

Where  the  love-fires  eternally  burn. 

They  come  with  the  absent  who  part  for  a  day, 

And  softly  they  tread  o'er  the  soul, 
Like  angels  who  walk  in  a  rose-blossomed  way, 

Or  the  summer-brook's  musical  roll. 

Doubt  not !  we  shall  meet  in  the  heaven  at  last, 

As  the  parted  in  spirit  meet  here, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Father  around  us  be  cast, 

To  dry  up  the  last  weeper's  tear. 


E8TIEILILE. 


Estelle,  O,  gloiious  Estelle  ! 

Thou  bind'st  me  with  that  beauteous  smile 

I  strive  to  fly  from  thee  away, 

Those  lips  forbid,  and  bid  me  stay, 

I  cannot  speak  the  simple  nay, 

O,  let  me  kneel  to  thee  awhile. 


POEMS.  189 

Why  did'st  thou  gaze  at  first  on  me  ? 
The  heart  cannot  resist  such  smile  ; 
I've  strove  to  blunt  the  piercing  dart, 
Each  blow  but  deeper  in  my  heart 
Has  driven  the  shaft,  I  cannot  part, 
O  let  me  kneel  to  thee  awhile ! 

Fair  girl,  why  droop  those  liquid  eyes — 
Why  add  their  lustre  to  that  smile — 
Why  let  that  Parian  bosom  swell — 
Why  blush  those  cheeks  like  liliy-bell — 
Why  tempt  me  thus,  Estelle,  Estelle  ! 
Nor  let  me  kneel  to  thee  awhile  ? 

A  purple  lip,  a  stainless  brow, 
A  heavenly  form,  an  angel  smile  ; 
A  tenderness,  to  melt  and  twine 
Around  this  fond  young  soul  of  mine, 
Have  made  Estelle  to  me  divine, 
May  I  not  kneel  to  her  awhile  ? 

Estelle,  O,  glorious  Estelle, 
So  long  as  thou  shalt  live,  and  smile, 
And  turn  on  me  those  beaming  eyes 
Which  mock  the  light  of  summer  skies, 
I  will  not  from  the  shrine  arise, 
But  kneel,  my  love,  to  thee  awhile. 
16 


IF 


I  am  come,  I  am  come !  from  the  purple  browed  sky, 

The  spirit  of  beauty  to  thee  ; 
I  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  rose-scented  air, 
I  sit  on  the  lips  of  the  violet  fair, 
And  weave  me  a  wreath  of  the  sun's  golden  hair, 
As  his  tresses  go  gleamingly  by, 

And  glimmer  the  foam  of  the  sea. 

I  am  come,  I  am  come  !  with  the  glance  of  the  dawn, 

In  garments  of  glory  and  light ; 
The  cheek  of  the  maid,  with  my  presence  is  blest, 
On  the  brow  of  the  mother  my  blushes  are  prest, 
As  she  folds  the  sweet  innocent  babe  to  her  breast ; 
I  sit  in  the  cottage,  and  mantle  the  lawn, 

With  all  that  is  golden  or  bright. 

I  am  come,  I  am  come!   on  the  flash  of  the  plume, 

Where  warriors  are  tossing  'their  steel, 
'Mong  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  in  summer  I  roam, 
And  make  on  the  sheen  of  the  harvests  my  home, 
Or  away  on  the  wave,  and  the  cataract's  foam, 


POEMS. 


In  the  gleam  of  the  stars,  and  the  smell  of  perfume, 
When  spice-  winds  of  autumn  ye  feel  ! 

I  am  come,  I  am  come  !  to  the  soul  and  the  eye, 

The  heart  that  is  gentle  and  true  ; 
I  smile  where  the  steps  of  humanity  press, 
Where  the  hand  of  the  angel  is  lifted  to  bless, 
Or  the  strong  to  the  weak  have  bestowed  a  caress, 
And  passed  not  the  suffering  by  ; 
O,  spirit  of  love,  unto  you  ! 

I  am  come,  I  am  come  !  and  I  pass  to  decay, 
From  the  leaf,  and  the  rose,  and  the  cheek  ; 

But  I  live  in  the  heart  that  is  ever  sincere, 

The  gush  of  the  soul,  and  the  gleam  of  the  tear, 

In  all  that  is  true  to  humanity  here-  — 

When  chill  winds  have  carried  the  blossoms  away, 
In  the  heart,  for  my  presence,  O  seek. 


©IF   ©HAKIM  DM®, 


A  wail  in  God's  temple !  one  pillar  is  broken, 
Which  stood  where  the  cherubim  folded  its  wings, 


192  POEMS. 

And  mute  is  the  high  shrine,  where  solemn  word 

spoken 
No  more  from  the  mouth  of  its  oracle  springs. 

A  wail  in  God's  temple  !  one  harp  string  is  sunder'd, 
Whose  music  was  deep  as  the  mighty  sea  wave, 
In  hymn  and  in  prayer,  or  when  wildly  it  thunder'd, 
The  lightnings  of  truth,  at  the  chains  of  the  slave. 

A  wail  in  God's  temple  !  one  sentry  has  perished, 
Whose  eye  never  turned  from  the  light  of  its  shrine, 
But  forever  knelt  down,  like  a  vestal,  and  cherish'd 
Deep,  deep  in  his  pure  soul,  the  spirit  divine. 

Wail,  wail  in  God's  temple  !  a  fearless  true-hearted, 
Has  passed  from  the  dark,  and  less  perfect  away  ; 
And  left  us  in  tears  by  the  turf  where  he  parted, 
To  gaze  on  the  path  where  he  flashed  for  a  day. 

Wail !  wail  in  God's  temple  !  the  heart  must  have 

anguish, 

Weep,  weep,  let  the  tender  tear  spring  on  his  sod ; 
Yet  cease,  it  is  wrong  in  our  sadness  to  languish, 
The  idol  we  mourn,  is  an  angel  of  God. 


Whence  art  thou,  glorious  light, 

With  thy  wild  streakings  ?     Whence 

Thou  conqueror  of  the  mystic  night, 

In  garb  inimitable  ?     Thou  bright 

Installer  of  the  morning,  say, 

Art  thou  from  eastward  ?  for,  from  thence, 

Peeping  with  eye  of  silver  grey, 

We  see  thee  usher  in  the  matchless  day. 

Child  of  the  emerald  eye, 

In  thy  far  home,  long  hidden 

To  our  keen  gaze — from  whence  do  fly 

Your  splendid  gteamings  .p     Is  yonder  sky 

Your  birth-place — or  the  stainless  spring, 

From  whence  thou  swift  hast  ridden 

On  golden  pinions,  and  dost  fling 

The  royal  noon  from  thy  own  quivering  wing  ? 

Say,  high  visitant,  whose  brow 
Is  gemmed  with  radiance — where 
16* 


194  POEMS. 

Is  thy  mother  ?     Are  there  more  as  thou, 

Children  unrivalled  f     Do  they  likewise  bow 

Majestic  down  the  yellow  west, 

When  evening  veils  their  glory  ?     Are 

They  only  for  the  day  hours  drest — 

Or  blent  with  stars  upon  the  midnight's  breast? 

A  mighty  minister,  thou  art ! 
Who  shall  unveil  thy  coming  forth, 
Mysterious  spirit  ?     Thou,  whose  dart 
Is  the  meridian's  flashing  !  start, 
Lightning-footed  thought,  and  swift,  away, 
Speed  to  the  shootings  up  of  yonder  north  ; 
See  if  she  pauseth  there  to  stay  ! 
Search,  fearless  eye,  where  is  her  fountain,  say  ? 

Ha  !  ye  may  climb  forever,  still 

Rattle  her  chariot  wheels  afar  ; 

Catch  from  the  sea  her  glance,  or  by  the  rill 

Scoop  up  her  gleaming — she  may  fill 

The  universe,  but  tell  me  who, 

Can  say  from  whence  her  jewelled  car 

Streaming  with  sun-clad  coursers,  through 

Yon  topless  arch,  yon  sky  of  matchless  blue  ! 


Q2)a[F  HILL©Wi[nl  D  IP 


Not  in  the  halls  of  noise  and  mirth, 
Among  the  proud  ones  of  the  earth, 

She  bends  her  ear — 
But  to  the  fearful  and  distrest, 
The  lowly,  bonded,  and  opprest, 

She  drops  the  tear. 

Not  in  that  palace  wide  and  high, 
Whose  walls  the  scowls  of  want  defy, 

Her  feet  are  seen — 
But  in  yon  dark  and  filthy  lane, 
Where  worth  sits  languishing  in  pain, 

She  stoops,  I  ween. 

By  that  half  glimmering  fire,  where  drags 
Misfortune's  self  her  load  of  rags, 

Begrimmed  with  dust — 
Behold  her  soft  and  soothing  hand, 
Through  deeds  of  truth  and  love  expand, 

With  mercy's  trust. 


POEMS. 

The  brow  of  wo  is  wrinkled  less, 
And  fainter  wails  forlorn  distress 

Where'er  she  goes — 
And  brighter  beams  the  weeper's  eye, 
'Mid  city  haunts,  and  deserts  dry, 

Or  mountain  snows. 

Lo  !  at  her  touch,  Promethean  fire  ! 
Humanity  is  lifted  higher 

From  the  cold  sod  ; 
And  kindles  with  the  native  flame, 
It  bore,  when  God-like  first  it  came 

From  nature's  God. 

On  !  be  her  quest,  the  good  of  man, 
Shall  see  her  foremost  in  the  van, 

For  battle  strong — 
And  on  her  banner  folds  above, 
Shall  triumph,  Friendship,  Truth,  and  Love, 

O'er  human  wrong  ! 


O  come  to  the  grave  where  the  martyr  lies  lowly, 
O  kneel  by  the  turf  where  the  young  hero  sleeps  ; 
And  over  his  ashes,  time-hallowed  and  holy, 
Weep,  weep,  as  in  silence,  the  sad  willow  weeps  ! 

Devotion's  young  child  who  for  libeity  perished, 
Down  crushed  to  the  earth  by  red  tyranny's  heel ; 
Whose  name  by  the  noble  of  nations  is  cherished, 
Let  tears  o'er  his  grave  your  deep  grieving  reveal. 

O  stay  where  the  star  from  its  pathway  was  smitten, 
Proud  Erin's  serenest,  though  many  hath  she ; 
Though  fallen — whose  epitaph  yet  is  unwritten, 
And  shall  be,  till  Erin,  unshackled,  is  free  ! 

Mourn,  Isle,  that  is  chafed  by  the  heel  of  the  billow, 
Your  deepest  soul  vent  over  young  Emmet's  grave; 
O  wail,  when  the  thunder  storm  rnaketh  its  pillow, 
And  resteth  its  brow  on  the  foam  of  the  wave ! 

Mourn,  desolate  land,  for  your  beauty  is  riven, 
Your  pride  and  your  strength  on  the  altar  is  slain  ; 


198  POEMS. 

But,  ha  !  o'er  the  dust  that's  so  fearlessly  striven, 
The  millions  he  roused,  for  the  struggle  remain  ! 

They  will  write  on  the  pillar  in  letters  of  glory, 
His  splendor,  his  sorrow,  his  death  and  his  fame ; 
But  alas  !  deeper  graven  than  letter  or  story, 
Each  Irishman's  heart  bears  the  loved  Emmet's 
name  ! 

And  thou  gentle  girl*  who  hast  died  of  thy  sorrow, 
Strike  gladly  your  harp  in  the  cherubic  choir, 
The  wreaths  of  your  Emmet  are  finished  to-morrow, 
To  bloom  on  his  brow  like  a  halo  of  fire. 


All  hopeful  things  are  prayed  for  as  a  dawn — 
The  midnight  which  lies  pillowed  on  the  world, 
Veiling,  and  yet,  revealing  the  bright  stars, 
Soothing  the  fever  of  the  universe; 
Beautiful  as  it  may  be,  to  him,  who  sits 
Watching  the  dances  of  the  fitful  cloud, 

*  Mary  Curran. 


POEMS.  199 

Wailing  his  hapless  love  to  the  sweet  moon, 

Or  nursing  suicide  on  some  rude  cliff 

Where  hoots  the  owl  above  his  reverie, 

Shall  be  chased  forth,  when  comes  to-morrow  morn, 

Like  a  dim  shadow  fading  into  dawn. 

Error,  which  had  its  birth  of  ancient  days, 
Hoary  with  the  endorsement  of  wise  men, 
Cradled  in  senates,  and  on  temple  shrines, 
In  years,  when  oracles  through  lips  of  stone 
Fashioned  the  models  of  uprising  states, 
And  sanctified  the  nonsense  of  dull  fools; 
Or  which  in  later  ages  has  sprung  forth 
Marring  the  fairest  fabrics  of  our  time, 
Our  faith,  law,  living,  and  philosophy  ; 
All  changes  its  rude  face  from  day  to  day, 
Shaping  its  flight  before  truth's  better  dawn ! 

Earth  had  its  dawn — Time  had  its  dawn  ! 
There  sprang  a  race  of  gods  in  olden  times, 
From  the  most  fruitful  brains  of  simple  men, 
Gods  worshiped — both  of  wood  and  stone, 
Around  Olympus  and  the  D'elphic  shrines  ; 
Aye  !  e'en  the  stars  and  elements  were  gods. 
Jove  had  his  court  in  heaven — beneath  the  waves, 
Neptune,  a  chariot  and  four  mermaids  drove, 
Frighting  the  dwellers  in  his  weedy  caves — 


200  POEMS. 

And  when  strong  armies  to  the  battle  went, 
They  prayed  to  Mars  or  Jupiter  for  aid. 
Lo  !  o'er  their  reign,  wrought  out  from  poesy, 
The  one,  Almighty,  and  Omniscient  came, 
And  in  the  splendor  of  His  cloudless  dawn, 
Crumbled  the  ages'  deities. 

Death  is  a  terrible  thing — to  sleep  alone 

In  the  coarse  gravel,  where  the  ploughman's  heel 

Tramps,  as  hereafter  'mong  his  ripened  corn, 

Singing  some  ballad,  he  shall  pluck  the  ears- — 

And  more,  to  him,  who  climbing  up  the  Alps, 

Far  from  his  kindred  and  his  early  home, 

Quivers  beneath  the  rushing  avalanche, 

And  feels  eternal  winter  on  his  breast ! 

Aye,  terrible- — if  human  love  no  more 

Plants  its  fair  roses  on  our  blushing  lips, 

Nor  lays  its  hand  within  our  open  palm. 

But,  lo  !  it  is  a  sleep  most  beautiful, 

When  on  our  dream  eternal  summer  breaks, 

And  life,  full  smiling  on  death's  purple  lids 

Lights  in  his  eyes  a  fresh,  immortal  youth, 

Kindling  the  resurrection  of  the  world, 

And  o'er  decay,  and  sorrow,  and  grim  night, 

Proclaims  the  dawning  of  perpetual  day. 


ER.LN. 


Arise,  Ocean  Isle  !  from  the  touch  of  the  chain, 
Where  for  ages  your  spirit  has  slumbered  in  night, 
Arise  from  the  bed  where  your  martyrs  were  slain, 
And  hurl  back  the  yoke  of  oppression  with  might! 
Up,  up,  ye  pale  hosts    from  the  field  and  the  flood, 
Let  your  voice  rattle  wild  with  the  roar  of  the  gale; 
Arise,  and  the  torch  and  the  banner  of  blood, 
Wave  over  the  land  where  your  glory  once  stood, 
Till  the  tyrant  confused  in  his  fear  shall  grow  pale. 

Where  now  is  the  fane  at  whose  altar  ye  knelt, 
When  the  harp  of  the  minstrel  with  triumph  was 

strung — 
And  the  cot  and  the  hearth  where  your  fore-fathers 

dwelt, 
When  freedom  looked  down  on  your  vallies,  where 

sprung 

The  rose  that  is  faded,  the  rose  that  is  past — 
When  "  Erin  Mavourneen  "  rang  wildly  on  high, 
And  thy  sons  were  as  free  as  the  wing  of  the  blast ; 
17 


POEMS. 


And  no  chains  on  thy  turf,  by  the  tyrant  were  cast, 
In  the  gore  of  the  brave,  for  thy  torture  to  lie  ! 

Where  now  is  the  wine-cup  your  heroes  once  prest» 
Which  sparkled  with  light  to  the  souls  of  the  brave  ? 
Quaffed,  quaffed  to  the  bottom  by  unbidden  guest, 
The  heio  who  held  it  in  triumph,  a  slave  ! 
Not  a  slave—  for  I  swear  to  the  tyrants  who  chain, 
That  the  bones  of  the  sleeping  in  wrath  shall  arise, 
From  the  vallies  where  moulder  the  forms  of  the 

slain, 

And  their  spirits  restore  to  old  Erin  again, 
The  star  of  her  freedom  which  gleams  in  the  skies  ! 

Up  minstrel  !*  arouse  with  a  spirit  of  fire, 
Thy  harp  on  the  willow  no  longer  be  hung  ; 
Breathe  wrath  'til  oppression  shall  sink  and  expire, 
Then  with  "Erin  Mavourneen"  its  cords  shall  be 

strung  — 

And  thou,  mighty  spirit,!  rush  on  with  thy  flood, 
Till  its  waves  are  as  strong  as  the  surge  of  the  sea, 
And  the   whelps  of  the  lion  are  whelmed  in  the 

blood 
They  have  spilt  in  the  track  where  their  iron  feet 

trod, 
And  the  land  of  your  fathers,  proud  Erin  is  free  ! 

*  Thomas  Moore.  t  Daniel  O'Connell. 


POEMS.  203 

In  your  vallies  the  fiend  his  red  wine-vat  has  made, 
Where  the  brave,  and  the  true,  and  the  lovely  are 

pressed ; 

And  low,  where  the  dust  of  your  fathers  is  laid, 
The  heels  of  the  tyrant  disdainfully  rest ! 
The  ashes  of  martyrs  are  scornfully  trod, 
The  lips  of  your  orators  sealed  by  the  chain  ; 
For  seven  long  centuries  bound  to  the  sod, 
Let  your  heroes  arise,  for  their  country  and  God, 
And  restore  unto  Erin  her  glory  again  ! 


The  war  storm  is  over,  the  thunders  have  passed 
From  the  land  where  the  eagle  spreads  boldly  his 

wing, 

And  hushed  is  the  trumpet  whose  soul-stirring  blast. 
Roused  the  freeman,  his  bolt  at  the  tyrant  to  fling; 
But  the  fields  are  yet  fresh  with  the  blood  of  the 

brave, 

And  the  fortress  walls  carry  the  searing  of  flame, 
Which  has  hallowed  the  turf  o'er  the  patriot's  grave, 

*  To  D.  C.  Pell,  Esq. 


204  POEMS. 

Who,  mocking  the  fetter,  and  scorning  the  slave, 
Gave  his  life  to  his  country,  his  spirit  to  fame  ! 

In  the  valleys  afar  the  rude  battlement  rose, 
From  the  hills  frowned  the  spirit  of  liberty  down  ; 
The  smoke  of  the  battle  enveloped  her  foes, 
She  tram;, led  the  tyrant  and  shivered  his  crown  ! 
The  free  banner  shook  its  light  folds  to  the  gale, 
The  stars  and  the  stripes  to  the  breeze  were  unfurled ; 
The  fiends  of  oppression  grew  frighted  and  pale, 
They  passed  like  a  storm — and  the  voice  of  their 

wail, 
Was  the  triumph  of  freedom,  the  hope  of  the  world. 

On  the  list  of  those  places  immortal  to  song, 
There  is  not  a  prouder  than  that  by  the  wave, 
Where  the  Lake  of  Champlain  flows  its  waters  along, 
And  tosses  its  surge  as  a  hymn  to  the  brave  ! 
The  fortress  where  Allen,  proud  Allen  awoke, 
The  sound  sleeping  Briton  unrisen  from  bed, 
And  his  sword  o'er  the  walls  of  the  battlement 

broke, 

Where  since  lowly  smitten  'mid  thunder  and  smoke, 
The  soldier  of  freedom  has  pillowed  his  head  ! 

The  thousands  of  sleepers  who  lie  in  her  dust, 
Have  hallowed  "  Old  Ti  "  to  the  pages  of  fame, 


POEMS.  205 

And  she  speaks  from  her  ruin  through  ages  of  rust, 
As  loud  as  she  spoke  in  the  tempest  of  flame  ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  freeman  is  thrilled  when  he  sees 
Her  half  mouldered  turrets  loom  up  to  the  skies, 
Defying  the  touch  of  the  storm  and  the  breeze, 
And  proudly  he  points  the  oppressor  to  these, 
And  bids  him  remember  the  past,  and  be  wise  ! 


1    H^TTILll-SiKJ  DIP, 


Like  a  free  bird  that  laughs  at  the  tempests  rude 

shock, 

She  sits  on  the  breast  of  the  storm-cradled  wave, 
Or  springs  to  the  battle,  war's  thunders  to  mock, 
Bearing  death  to  the  fearful,  and  fame  to  the  brave ! 
She  courts  the  black  whirlwind,  and  drinks  in  the 

glance 

Of  the  fiery-browed  lightnings,  that  hiss  at  the  deep, 
And  leaps  to  her  carol,  where  white  surges  dance, 
When  the  storm-god  his  harvest  of  navies  would  reap. 

Her  wings,  in  defiance,  are  spread  to  the  blast, 
As  down  in  the  white  foam  her  haughty  brow  dips, 
17* 


206  POEMS. 

And  her  stern,  awful  challenge,  to  battle  is  cast 
From  a  hundred  grim  mouths,  with  their  dark  iron 

lips ! 
She  breathes  from  her  nostrils  a  broad  sheet  of 

flame, 

And  striketh  her  keel  on  the  crest  of  the  tide  ; 
And  down,  far  away  from  the  land  whence  they 

came, 
Sleep  the  hosts   that  swept  on,   and  her  passing 

defied  ! 

There  floats  she  !  the  stars  and  the  stripes  at  her 

head, 

The  thunders,  half  muffled,  lie  pent  in  her  breast ; 
As  away,  o'er  the  green  mighty  surges,  her  tread 
On  the  sheen  of  the  wave  is  disdainfully  prest — 
She  speaks,  and  the  nations  shrink  back  from  her 

tongue, 
As  they  shrink  at  the  roar  of  the  fire-mountain 

flame, 

And  the  dirge  of  the  foemen  who  meet  her,  is  rung, 
As  she  sweeps  o'er  their  grave,  bearing  conquest  to 

fame. 


Proud  land  of  my  birth  !  thou  art  free  as  the  blast, 
On  whose  bosom  the  grey  forest  eagle  hath  sprung, 
And  clown  on  the  hills,  and  the  valleys  he  passed, 
His  glance  like  a  shaft  from  the  thunder-cloud  flung  ! 
Thou  art  happy  and  fair,  thy  sky-kissing  hills, 
Where  the  hemlock  and  spruce  ever  nod  to  the 

breeze, 

Deep  fire  in  the  soul  of  the  peasant  instils, 
Who  drinks  of  the  gale,  and  the  bright  leaping  rills 
That  spring  from  the  mountains,  and  pass  to  the 

seas. 

Noble  land  of  my  birth  !  by  the  blood  of  the  brave, 
Thou  wert  purged  from,  oppression,  and  hallowed 

to  fame  ; 

Thy  sons  are  as  strong  as  the  the  forests  that  wave 
O'er  the  dust  of  the  serfs,  of  the  tyrant,  who  came 
With  the  tramp  of  the  lion,  to  fetter  our  shore  ; 
Thy  daughters  are  fair  as  the  roses  that  spring 
In  the  glens,  where  the  boughs  of  the  pine  hover  o'er, 


203  POEMS. 

Where  the  summer-bird's  song,  and  the  cataract's 

roar 
Their  cadence  far  up  on  the  fresh  breezes  fling ! 


Thy  heroes  are  high  on  the  annals  of  song, 
The  Aliens,  and  Starks,  who  for  freedom  arose, 
And  smote  by  the  altar,  oppression  and  wrong, 
Till  the  smoke  of  the  battle  had  smothered    their 

foes — 

And  the  sons  who  are  left,  should  a  tyrant  come  near, 
Will  arise  like  the  fathers,  with  banner  arid  SUM.!  ; 
And  thunder  the  music  of  death  in  his  ear, 
Till  his  hosts  'neath  the  turf  where  they  tread,  dis 
appear, 
Crushed  low  to  the  dust  by  the  mountaineer's  heel! 

O,  long  may  thy  stars  be  as  proud  as  to-day, 
Thy  sons  be  as  strong,  and  thy  daughters  as  fair ; 
And  the  shouts  of  the  free,  from  thy  valleys  away, 
Join  the  scream  of  the  eagle,  whose  home  is  the  air ! 
On  thy  snow-covered  hills,  where  the  evergreens 

wave, 
Which  are  cradled  and  reared  by  the  storm  and 

the  blast, 

May  liberty  stoop  o'er  the  last  tyrant's  grave, 
And  break  the  last  fetter  that  clings  to  the  slave, 
While  her  light  o'er  the  earth  in  its  splendor  is  cast ! 


Let  them  sing  of  the  blue  lakes  that  glisten  afar, 
Made  classic  in  story,  and  dear  to  romance  ; 
Geneva,  and  Leman,  and  bright  Windermere, 
Where  the  silver  waves  swift  in  the  summer  light 

dance — 

As  fresh  as  their  fairest,  as  proud  as  their  best, 
Are  the  waves  which  bore  incense  to  liberty's  fane; 
Whether  rocked  by  the  tempest,  or  lying  at  rest, 
By  the  smooth  keel  of  commerce,  or  war  vessel 

prest, 
Our  own  chosen  water,  the  Lake  of  Champlain  ! 

Go  search  the  Swiss  valleys,  or  far  to  the  south, 

Not  one  can  ye  find  to  the  freeman  so  dear, 

As  the  lake  which  lies  hemmed  by  the  hills  of  the 

north, 

Whose  islands  are  blooming,  whose  waters  are  clear ; 
For  high  o'er  its  bosom,  in  days  that  are  past — 
The  eagle  glared  down  on  the  lion's  red  mane, 
Whose  challenge  thus  bold  o'er  our  waters  was  cast, 

*  To  Capt.  R.  Sherman. 


210  POEMS. 

And  screamed  in  his  ear  to  the  tune  of  the  blast, 
And  frightened  him  far  from  the  Lake  of  Cham  plain! 

• 

Aye,  search  for  a  fairer — but  where  will  ye  find 
A  spot  treasured  more  on  the  pages  of  fame, 
Than  the  lake  where  M'Donough   drove  tyranny 

back, 

And  conquered  old  Downie'mid  ihunderand  flame? 
The  earth  has  none  prouder,  more  dear  to  the  soul 
Of  the  freeman,  who  kneels  by  his  blood-purchased 

fane, 

Than  thou,  who  upbore  him  lo  liberty's  goal 
'Mid  the  storm,  and  the  carnage  of  bai tie,  whose  roll 
Has  christened  theesacied,  dear  Lake  ol'Champlain. 


GG  Limn  BOA' 8    IPD  Kl 


The  Pines  of  old  Scotia  may  wrest  wiih  the  gale, 
When  tempests  their  lightnings  have  flung  fiom  the 

cloud, 

When  the  fire-footed  storms  in  the  summer -sky  sail 
Like  giants  to  battle,  undaunted,  unbowed  ! 


POEMS.  211 

As  high  o'er  our  hills  with  their  lofty  brows  shine, 
The  evergreen  heads  of  Columbia's  Pine  ! 

Aye,  prouder !  far  prouder,  for  free'er  the  land, 
Over  which  thy  strong  arms  like  a  banner  are  flung, 
Unmatched  and  unrivalled,  eternal  they  stand, 
And  strive  with  the  storms   from  the  crags  where 

they  sprung  ; 

Nor  reck  they,  when  tempests,  or  lightnings  incline, 
But  ring  out  their  challenge,  those  forests  of  Pine  ! 

Go  gaze  where  earth's  pillars  have  shot  to  the  skies, 
Where  the  fierce  eagle  screams  to  the  storm  and 

the  blast, 

From  their  tops  like  rude  heralds  serenely  they  rise, 
And  their  shadows  far  down  on  the  valley  are  cast, 
O'er  the  spring  and  the  .torrent,  the  leaf  and  the 

vine, 
Spread  the  strong  royal  arms  of  Columbia's  Pine. 

Green  !  green  may  it  wave,  from  the  rock-bosom'd 

hill, 

Forever  lift  up  its  broad  arms  to  the  cloud; 
And  mock  at  the  blasts  as  they  whistle  by  shrill, 
All  firm  in  their  places,  unrivalled,  unbowed, 
As  proud  as  their  kindred,  o'er  Scotia's  hills  shine, 
The  pride  of  the  free  souls,  Columbia's  Pine  ! 


[L©WELY 


Tis  not  in  the  lowly  places 

Vice  alone  has  trode  elate, 

Lo,  she  walks  in  gilded  slippers 

'Mong  the  dwellings  of  the  great ; 

Noble  lords,  and  noble  princes, 

Old  and  holy  men  of  note, 

These  have  worn  her  robes  of  crimson, 

Pressed  her  many  colored  coat ! 

All  the  wicked  deeds  of  tyrants, 
Splendid  villanies  of  time  ; 
Mitred  priests,  and  bannered  heroes, 
Wrought  by  their  own  will  for  crime  ! 
Let  them  not  upon  the  lowly, 
Whom  they  chain  and  sore  oppress, 
Strive  to  fix  the  seal  of  guilty, 
While  they  wear  the  culprit's  dress. 

Long,  the  field  was  wide  and  ample, 
Long,  have  struggled  on,  the  low  ; 


POEMS.  213 

Longer,  tyrants  may  not  trample 
On  the  peasant's  sweaty  brow — 
From  the  heart,  and  from  the  spirit, 
Which  hath  beat  so  long  in  vain, 
Springs  the  Titan  they  inherit, 
Manhood,  manhood  breaks  the  chain ! 

'Neath  the  peasant's  vest,  a  bosom 
Fired  with  freedom's  love  appears, 
While  the  king  with  all  his  glitter 
Sits  a  slave  among  his  peers — 
Think  not  men  are  great  or  noble 
On  account  of  robes  they  wear; 
Titles,  worthy  righteous  spirits, 
Fall  to  many  a  villian's  share  ! 

Think  not,  in  the  lanes  and  garrets 
Vice  hath  crept  with  fearful  mien, 
Real  guilt  is  in  the  palace, 
Though  its  walls  the  actors  screen — 
When  ye  fight  your  fearful  battles, 
When  ye  strike  for  old  renown, 
Then,  the  lowly  are  your  marrow, 
Nerve  and  sinew  to  the  crown  ! 

When  the  tug  of  strife  is  over, 
And  the  spoils  are  heaped  away ; 
18 


POEMS. 

Lo  !  ye  paupers  who  are  squalid, 
Seek  the  lanes  ye  left  to-day  ! 
By  the  shades  of  all  the  mighty, 
Ye,  who  sit  in  gilded  place, 
Hurl  not  scorn  upon  the  lowly, 
Though  their  path  in  rags  they  trace. 

It  is  ye  who  thus  have  made  them, 
As  your  warriors,  and  youi  slaves  ; 
Ye  yourselves  in  rags  arrayed  them, 
And  would  hunt  them  to  their  graves— 
But  with  all  your  fiendish  clamor, 
Say  not,  vice,  the  alley  holds, 
Ye,  who,  in  the  high-reared  dwellings, 
Live  and  fester  in  its  folds ! 


BfflY    M^\TOWg    LAME). 


Though  brighter  beams  may  gild  the  shore 

Where  Sarum's  ruined  castles  rise, 

And  fairer  splendors  hover  o'er 

Italia  from  the  drooping  skies  ; 

No  clime  hath  more  of  loved  or  grand, 

Than  our  own  dear,  and  native  land  I 


POEMS.  215 

Beyond  the  sea,  the  leaping  vine 
May  cling  to  fane,  and  fortress  grey, 
And  clustering  shade  the  olden  shrine 
Which  now  is  mouldering  to  decay  ; 
O'er  these,  the  hills  and  altars  stand, 
That  crown  and  bless  my  native  land  ! 

However  I  love  the  southern  sky, 

The  hallowed  clime  where  music  sprung — 

Though  on  my  ear  may  never  die 

The  strain's  its  god-like  bards  have  sung ; 

They  melt  away  that  glorious  band, 

Before  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 

God  bless  her  soil,  God  bless  her  breeze, 
The  springs  that  lave  each  mountain's  brow, 
The  hills,  the  vales,  the  waving  trees, 
And  keep  them  fresh  and  fair  as  now ; 
Nor  let  one  chain,  or  tyrant's  hand 
Profane  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 


Hush !  from  the  sky  another  star  has  gone, 
Another  spirit  passed  beyond  the  goal ; 
Another  glorious  and  immortal  soul 
Flashed  to  the  radiance  of  eternal  dawn — 
A  darkness  in  our  firmament,  on  high, 
A  loftier  splendor  in  the  upper  sky  ! 

The  hand  is  palsied,  at  whose  mighty  spell, 
The  canvass  glowed  with  images  divine ; 
Whose  pencil  bade  the  face  of  nature  shine, 
E'en  till  the  curtain  of  the  angel  fell, 
And  from  his  eyes  of  all  their  lustre  shorn, 
Shut  out  the  glory  of  the  purple  morn. 

A  string  is  loosened  from  the  coral  lyre, 

By  hands  celestial  for  our  spirits  strung ; 

From  whence  the  loftiest  of  our  notes  have  sprung, 

And  kindled  deep  a  wild  extatic  fire — 

And  sad  our  souls  amid  the  living  throngs, 

For  mute  the  voice  that  peopled  them  with  songs. 

Poet,  and  Painter  !  from  our  midst  struck  down 
To  spurn  the  dust,  and  like  a  Phoenix  rise, 


POEMS.  217 

Transcendent  to  thy  throne  amid  the  skies, 
Upon  thy  brow  the  laurel  and  the  crown  ; 
Thy  form  has  bended  to  the  will  of  fate, 
But  all  is  left  that  makes  it  consecrate. 

No  portion  of  the  genius-spirit  dies, 

Thy  song  shall  triumph  from  the  flight  of  years, 

Thy  canvass  blushing  through  its  charms  appears, 

By  far  more  glorious  to  our  ravished  eyes, 

And  from  their  splendor  and  their  fame,  may  we, 

Behold  their  master  and  their  fire  in  thee  I 


The  glory  of  man  !  like  a  gush  of  the  breeze 
That  leaps  from  the  thunder-cloud  strong, 
And  lifts  up  the  limbs  and  the  leaves  of  the  trees, 
And  dies  as  it  passes  along : 

Like  the  wrath  of  the  surge  as  it  breaks  on  the  shore, 
Provoked  by  the  wing  of  the  blast, 
To  melt  as  it  dashes  the  rock  with  a  roar, 
And  forever  and  ever  be  passed ! 
18* 


POEMS. 

The  fame  of  a  man  !  like  the  dew  on  the  turf, 

Which  a  glance  of  the  sun  has  consumed, 

Like  a  dream,  or  the  spray  on  the  brow  of  a  surf, 

Or  the  flash  of  a  swift  eagle's  plume  : 

An  echo  forgot  e'er  it  came  to  the  ear, 

A  presence  which  never  was  felt ; 

A  shrine  with  the  footsteps  of  worshipers  near, 

But  lost,  e'er  they  found  it  and  knelt ! 

The  strength  of  a  man  !  like  a  feather  sent  out 

To  fetter  the  storm-spirit's  feet, 

A  leaf  in  the  arms  of  the  hurricane  stout, 

A  snail  on  the  lightning's  back  fleet — 

A  mote  to  be  lost  in  the  folds  of  the  grass, 

A  sigh  in  the  ear  of  the  gale ; 

A  drop  in  the  ocean  to  quiver  and  pass, 

No  echo  to  whisper  the  tale  ! 

The  hope  of  a  man  !  'tis  as  high  as  the  stars, 

As  deep  as  the  fathomless  space ; 

As  strong  as  the  earthquake  that  breaketh  its  bars, 

And  swift  as  the  light  in  its  race  : 

The  glory  and  fame,  and  the  strength  shall  decay, 

But  the  hope  of  the  spirit  is  sure  ; 

And  fresh  when  the  sun  and  the  stars  fade  away, 

Will  forever  and  ever  endure ! 


TH 


They  make  the  Poet's  couch,  at  last, 
A  bed  of  bridal  flowers, 
Where  he  must  wed  himself  to  death 
By  slow  and  lingering  hours  ; 
O  bid  adieu,  O  bid  adieu, 
Thou  soul  of  sweetest  song, 
Hang  up  thy  lyre  of  broken  string, 
And  join  the  passing  throng. 

Yes,  he  must  go !  his  lips  are  white, 
His  brow  is  pale  and  cold, 
The  heart  beats  low  and  fitfully 
Which  thrilled  us  so  of  old  ; 
O  gaze  around,  O  gaze  around, 
Before  the  hour  is  past, 
Upon  the  face  of  loving  friends 
Thy  parting  glances  cast. 

Another  morn  is  not  for  thee 
Thou  glorious  spirit-child, 
So  gaze  upon  the  full  robed  sun 
Which  unto  thee  hath  smiled  ; 


220  POEMS. 

In  many  a  day,  when  far  away 
From  sorrow  and  from  care, 
Thy  lips  have  touched  the  spring  of  life 
In  childhood's  valleys  fair. 

O  gaze  upon  the  earth  around 

Which  thou  hast  loved  so  well, 

For  silently  'tis  passing  back, 

And  broken  soon  the  spell; 

O  smell  the  rose,  the  fragrant  rose, 

Thou  gathered'st  long  ago, 

Which  soon  shall  veil  its  blushing  face, 

And  o'er  thy  ashes  grow. 

Remember  thou  the  summer-cloud 

Which  rode  upon  the  breeze, 

Inspiring  early  dreams  of  thine  : 

And  how  the  leafy  trees, 

Like  angels,  seemed  to  clap  their  hands, 

And  whisper  unto  thee, 

"  O  gentle  heart  cast  off  thy  bonds 

And  like  the  wind  be  free  ?" 

Look  on  that  cloud,  and  on  the  trees, 
And  bid  them  all  adieu, 
For  they  shall  smile  to-morrow  morn 
When  thou  with  life  art  through  ; 


POEMS.  221 

O  bid  them  wave,  and  drop  a  tear 
For  friendship's  sake  to  thee, 
Who  art  beneath  them  sleeping  low, 
And  cold,  and  silently ; 

And  'tis  the  last  of  evening  skies 

To  glimmer  on  thy  gaze, 

Behold  the  brightly  pencilled  stars 

Which  on  its  bosom  blaze ; 

When  thou  art  low  to-morrow  eve, 

Upon  that  turf  of  thine, 

Shall  they  with  eyes  that  speak  of  love 

To  bless  thy  slumber  shine. 

How  darkly  droops  the  veil  of  death, 

Thou  see'st  no  more  the  day, 

But  vaguely  round  thee  shadows  flit 

To  bear  thy  soul  away  ; 

The  golden  land  of  which  thou  sang 

With  all  a  Poet's  fire, 

Will  soon  be  thine,  if  thine  at  all, 

Thou  genius  of  the  lyre. 

The  vision  is  a  glorious  one, 
The  heaven  looks  fair  and  bright — 
And  yet  'tis  hard  to  pass  away, 
To  leave  the  day  for  night ; 


222  POEMS. 

To  be  the  sport  of  still  decay, 
And  in  the  winter  tomb 
To  feel  the  worms,  at  riot-play 
Our  shell  of  life  consume. 

O,  bitter  is  the  passing  hour, 

Though  smiling  round  thy  bed, 

The  eyes  of  beauty  cheer  thee  on 

To  paths  with  roses  spread  ; 

The  chill  that  sits  upon  thy  soul 

They  cannot  drive  away, 

Nor  cheat  thee  with  their  flowers,  to  think 

It  is  thy  bridal-day. 

'Tis  but  a  moment's  struggle — thou 
Art  loosed,  and  free  at  last, 
And  from  the  fire  that  kindled  thee 
Forever,  ever  passed  ! 
O  mournfully,  O  mournfully, 
The  night  wind  overhead, 
Breathes  softly  to  the  ears  of  men, 
The  child  of  song  is  dead. 


©G5 


Devotion's  child  is  Isadore, 
With  sunny  curl  and  placid  eye ; 
A  worshiper  beneath  the  sky, 
To-day,  henceforth,  and  evermore  ! 
O,  I  would  love  to  kneel  with  her, 
To  bow  before  the  pleasant  shrine, 
Where  she  has  plead  with  love  divine, 
That  sweet  and  holy  worshiper. 

No  stain  of  earth  upon  her  brow, 
The  trusting,  meek,  and  gentle  one  ; 
No  deed  her  hand  has  ever  done 
Which  asks  for  her  repentance  now — 
For  love  alone  she  fondly  kneels, 
And  lifts  to  heaven  those  quiet  eyes, 
Which  blend  their  azure  with  the  skies, 
As  night  around  her  forehead  steals. 

And  fain  would  think  my  heart  beguiled, 
That  she  was  born  of  holier  sphere ; 
A  dreamy  angel  lingering  here, 
That  fond,  and  fair,  and  glorious  child. 
O  when  there  comes  a  sadness  o'er 
This  grieved  and  aching  heart  of  mine, 
I'll  turn  to  thee,  sweet  child  divine, 
And  kneel,  and  pray  with  Isadore. 


VME    CCO 


One  eve,  as  I  sat  where  my  Lelia  was  weeping, 
I  leaned  on  her  bosom  the  hour  to  beguile  ; 
When  the  little  god  cupid  awoke  from  his  sleeping, 
And  wreathed  on  the  brow  of  the  maiden  a  smile. 

With  wonder  I  gazed  on  this  change  of  her  sorrow, 
And  wildly  my  soul  drank  the  vision  of  bliss, 
As  I  breathed  in  her  ear,  O  permit  me  to  borrow 
A  rose  from  thy  cheek  for  my  fancy  to  kiss. 

Then  fondly  she  smiled,  and  her  silence  consented, 
While  trembling  with  phrenzy,  I  culled  them  all  o'er, 
And  e'er  for  the  loan  of  her  cheek  she  repented, 
I  grasped  at  its  blushes,  and  gathered  one  more. 

O  cruel !   she  cried,  thus  to  rob  me  of  beauty, 
When  I  had  so  freely  just  given  to  you  ; 
Forgive  me  !  I  echoed,  love  stoops  not  to  duty, 
She  smiled  me  a  pardon,  I  bid  her  adieu ! 


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